


Little Girl in Bloom

by Little_Girl_In_Bloom



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Closure, Development, Elriel, F/M, Flowers, God I hope, Just a heads up most of the other characters are mentioned, Yes it's a Thin Lizzy reference and if you got it you are my champion, they'll come into it though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-05-02 17:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14549562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Girl_In_Bloom/pseuds/Little_Girl_In_Bloom
Summary: Seeking closure for a war half of the world seems to have moved on from, Elain Archeron sets out on a task to contribute what she can to it's end. Putting on her green fingers, the young woman begins collecting flowers from all over Prythian in order to create a symbol of peace for the country: a garden. Of course, a certain shadow handed friend accompanies her at her request.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who get the Thin Lizzy reference, you are amazing and you are instantly cool in my eyes. I just thought this would be a really good idea and an interesting one for closure. I don't mean to hate on Lucien and I do want him to be happy, so please don't hate me. For you Elriel shippers, I hope you enjoy. Also, I haven't read ACOFAS yet, so I don't know if this dynamic's changed or not. With all that said, please proceed to enjoy my work. Do take the time to give constructive criticisms please! It would really help :)

Elain sat with her perfect hands folded neatly in her lap, wondering at the changes they had gone through.

She remembered them at their earliest small and soft, gloved in her father’s ink stained ones. Then they became roughened and soiled with petals and mud and all things good and green. She smiled, thinking of the tiny garden she enjoyed cultivating, the small corner of fairer place she tried to make for herself and her family whenever Feyre chanced upon some seeds in the mortal wilderness. All the callouses and scars had faded now, smoothed away by high fae immortality like creases from a sheet. She recalled them decorated in lace, warmed by Graysen’s own loving palms and ringed with iron. That ring had long since disappeared, buried, returned into the earth like a corpse. She could not bear to toss it into the Sidra, to pollute her brother-in-law’s beautiful city with such hatred as that small circle contained. Still, a pale band remained on her hands, which now bore the remnants of a soft, healthy tan. She turned her right hand over, hoping to see the future by choice this time in the carvings of her own palm, but all she saw was the past splattered in Hybern’s blood across it. She tucked her hands deeper into the folds of her pale blue dress and looked out to the bare garden she had not touched. It looked rather pitiful this spring.

Bathing in the sunlight of the high library window as she read had become her ritual. She did it every morning until noon peaked, sometimes beyond then. Elain hoped she might rejuvenate by it. After all, did sunlight not help the flowers grow? Did the spring not resurrect life in the deadest of meadows?

She frowned at her reflection in the mirror, the purple smudges beneath her eyes, the shadow of herself, and slunk from her perch, putting down yet another boring, unrealistic romance down on the table before she parted from the room, making her way for the kitchen. Chocolate cake, she found, was a quicker remedy for her bouts of hunger and melancholy moods than photosynthesis.

It had been a year since the war ended. Everyone else seemed to have gotten over the war. Feyre and Rhysand were always busy with politics, painting or other activities which everyone within the vicinity of their house elected to ignore, but definitely knew about because, by the cauldron, she knew her sister could be loud when she wanted, but did she really have to make the High Lord of the Night Court sound like he does at three o’clock in the morning? Never mind a room, they needed an entire court to themselves. Elain cringed at the thought of bearing another night in the house with them.

Mor had finally found the courage to introduce the Inner Circle to her lover, a pretty female she had met at Rita’s- not that Elain was surprised. Honestly, as soon as the vision came to her, of Mor happy, with sunshine on her cheeks and someone else’s slim hands cupping her jaw, Elain had been counting down the days.

Amren, whom Elain still had a cocktail of fear and respect for, often came around to visit and flaunt her jewels, including her chief treasure, Varian. He didn’t seem to mind though. In fact, his smile was more radiant than any gem Amren wore, and she knew it too.

Even Nesta, whose heart was guarded by thorns, stone and adamant, was softening. Elain knew it had something to do with a certain Illyrian male whom her sister referred to as ‘Winged Stupidity’- surely a sign of affection.

Poor Cassian, Elain thought with a sad smile as she turned down the stairs, already catching a waft of chocolate. She hurried her pace. He’s still got a year to go yet. Ah, well. It’ll be worth it.

Yes, everyone had seemed to have gotten over it. Everyone had a pair to confide in, to halve to woe. Yet she was still waking up in the middle of the night with dreams so vivid she feared they might be another prophecy. Her sisters were always there and she knew the softness of Mor’s shoulder by the amount of times she had wept on it. Even Rhysand tried to offer comfort in his charming way. Cassian even suggested training, which Elain, due to her preference for chocolate cake and lie-ins, politely, but firmly, denied. Still, there was no one to roll over to in those dark hours before dawn, no one to whisper softly onto her brow, no one to share her sleeps with.

Unbidden thoughts came of Lucien and her blood curdled in her shrivelled heart for what she had done to him. Feyre and Nesta had been there with her when she told him, one on each side like dual swords. The Illyrians were on the roof and Amren was waiting outside the door, the last line of defence. Elain felt Lucien had deserved to hear it from her. She had learned of the calamity Feyre’s leaving of Tamlin had caused, how he thought he might be being deceived. This way, another war would not start. His gold eye to her had always seemed cold and emotionless. After her denial of the bond, so did his organic one.

He had left without a word and she had not heard from him since. She had wept that night for the selfishness of her cruel, human heart.

She cried less now. Ate more too. Long had her figure been back, as well as lustre to her brown hair and even a little light in her eyes. Maybe, she sometimes thought, she didn’t need a lover. She just needed herself and time. Then, she might stop seeing Hyburn’s blood on her hands and her father’s on his.

She was trying to be better. Cauldron, she was trying.

Elain entered through the broad doorway into the bright kitchen, leaving thoughts of blood on the floor behind her, mouth already watering in anticipation of that sweet chocolate cake Cerridwen was making. Elain had observed many subtle differences between the twins, though it took months for two moved as if a split person sometimes. Cerridwen was more skilled at cakes and pastries, whereas Nuala’s shortbread was worth starting a fight for. The twins had provided her with pleasant company whenever they could, but with their dual work as domestic helpers and spies, they were seldom in the town house.

Feyre and Rhys were out on courtly business today. Cassian, if she remembered, was visiting the Steppes and Nesta had insisted on going with him. ‘Out of spite’, she had told Elain flatly, though hints of a smile tugged up the corners of her mouth. Cassian actually chuckled before winnowing them both away. Mor was with her lover visiting the Winter Court and Viviane, a high fae that made Elain wish she had asked to come with them. Then again, thinking about Mor’s handsy, smoochy way with her beloved, Leona, Elain would prefer not to be a fifth wheel and was quite content with the company of the twins.

Only, it was neither Cerridwen nor Nuala with a spoon full of chocolate cake batter in their mouth and the rest smeared around their mouth.

Azriel’s hazel eyes went wide, obviously having been to enraptured in his baking to have heard her coming. He snatched the spoon from his lips, pointed it at her like Truth-Teller and said with deadly seriousness, “Don’t you dare tell Cassian.”

Elain’s laughter burst out of her like a firework.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back. I really ought to be revising the Iliad right now, but Achilles can wait. Anyone ever realised Agamemnon is the Regina George of the Trojan War? Now that's a fanfiction I would read. Like, all the Greeks are there in the Trojan horse and Odysseus is like, "Get in loser, we're going sacking". Oh my God. I didn't know I needed this. Anyway, another chapter. It's a lot longer now (that's what she said) so I hope you enjoy. As always, please comment. Honestly, I only write fics to get criticism for my writing to improve it. Call me out for plot holes, spelling mistakes, mis-characterisation, anything! I just really wanted to explore Azriel beyond 'stares longingly at Mor' and go beyond Elain 'the flower girl' even though she still is kind of a 'flower girl'. Now she's got thorns. Wow, I should get ten points to Gryffindor for my cheesiness there. I mean, why do people just demote such a complex character to a love sick puppy? Azriel is one dark mother fucker. I mean, he had tortured people for his job! On top of that, Elain is the actual definition of 'Looks like a cinnamon role, but could actually kill you'. But they're still precious. And I'm a sucker for the whole darkness and light trope. The opposites attract trope (Zutara, amirite?) I hope you enjoyed my rant mildly entertaining and if not, your disappointment and anger only makes me stronger. Ta ta, folks and enjoy.

And of course, there was Azriel, the quiet one, the one who Elain liked the company of most.

Perhaps, before the Cauldron, before the War and Hybern, she would have slipped easily into the role of a socialite again, chatting with new friends about frivolous things, never out of company in daylight. It had been easy when their wealth suddenly came to back to the Archerons, to fall back into the role she was moulded for from birth, the sweet, loving daughter who dreamed of one day become a sweet, loving wife- then a mother. She almost huffed at the thought of having wanted so little, such monotony. Yet here she was, in a world of magic and wonder and horror, and found she was faced with the same thing.

The Cauldron had carved her in its own way, stripped away parts of her completely, amplified others and gifted her with curses. She was too jagged to fit into Court life just yet, to rigid. She was not hard and unbending as Nesta was. Elain felt more like a piece of splintered wood. She just needed to sand herself down, then everything would be alright. Everything would be fine. Normal.

With the others, Mother bless them, they were kind, but sometimes they over did it. She could sneeze and she would have a blanket from Cassian, hot tea from Feyre, orders she go to bed from Nesta, a book from Rhysand while she was bed ridden and cakes from Mor, baked by Leona. Even Amren might come around to give her a once over to check her health. They were lovely, all of them, full of golden compassion and all the warmth of star light, but she was not a glass doll. She was soft, she knew, but immortality had solidified her at least a bit. Sometimes, it was as if she were the baby sister, not Feyre.

Yet Azriel, the man- male –before her, he had not changed, hadn’t become... overbearing. Well, perhaps he was a little less guarded around her, even letting himself blush furiously now as he hastily began pouring the dark barter into a greased cake tin, though his shadows grazed his cheeks, as if trying to hide their redness.

When her laughter died down, she told him, “Give me a slice of that cake and it’s a bargain.”

His eyebrows raised, though a smile tugged at the corners of his shapely lips, crinkled his hazel eyes. “Careful, that’s how you get a new tattoo here.”

Elain held her own arms out before her, trying to imagine them coated in whorls of intricately knotted blue-black, like Feyre’s. She quickly folded them under her again when she saw the glimpses of red, reminding herself the colour wasn’t really there.

“I didn’t know you liked baking,” quickly commented Elain, taking a seat at the island counter and folding her arms on top, carefully avoiding the flour scattered about. A hint of cheekiness pulled at the edges of her mouth. “I never knew you liked cake batter so much either.”

The shadowsinger’s shoulders went rigid, even as he forced his voice to come out calmly. “I got Cerridwen to teach me. I needed a new hobby- to settle me down.”

Elain’s brown eyes slipped to the garden visible from the kitchen window, totally ungroomed and a little dull. “I know what you mean.”

Keen as Truth-Teller, Azriel’s eyes slid to the same spot as Elain, then onto her herself. He made a strange image, dressed in all black save for the pink apron he wore, broad hands gloved and holding the cake tin, all the while his huge, demonic wings were tucked behind him. He looked like the most unlikely and incongruous Fairy Godmother. Elain would have had to bite her lip were it not for the look in his eyes: contemplation.

Elain looked away from his intense gaze, feeling it slide easily through her even then. What were his shadows reporting back to him?

“I’m fine,” Elain said with a little more hardness in her voice than necessary, a trick she had learned from her adamantine sisters. “Before you ask.”

Azriel’s shapely lips grew thinner with the effort of keeping words behind them, an uncommon expression for him, who so easily kept his voice to himself. He turned around and put the cake in the oven before taking off his gloves and apron. Beneath, he wore a simple black tunic and pants- casual clothes, Elain realised. It must have been his day off- so why was he here? She surmised he was waiting for Rhys.

He took a seat opposite her, though he filled the space of three people with his wings. Feyre and Mor often joked about Azriel’s wingspan being the largest, though Elain did not know why it was funny other than it made Rhys and Cassian look like the most miserable pair of bats. At one point, Cassian even demanded a ruler and Rhysand magically obliged, only to prove themselves shortest.

Elain waited for the interrogation that would grate on even her patience, even as she gave him her most convincing smile.

“Alright,” was all Azriel said with a nod before going to fill the metal teapot with water from the sink.

And that was why Elain liked him the most. There was no concerned crooning like her sisters, no friendly jab from Cassian and a Come on, you can tell me- I’m practically your brother-in-law! He still had a few more years before that came true, but Elain saw the optimism as a promising sign.

With Azriel, she got the pleasures of being alone without being lonely. Just his presence was a plaster over whatever was eating her inside, a balm to the soul wound that was still healing.

“Would you like some tea, Elain?” Softly offered the shadow singer, peaking over his wings and through his shadows.

She nodded, smile genuine this time. “Yes, please.”

Needing something to do, she began reaching for all the pots and shoving them into the sink while Azriel set the water boiling. She was just about to start scrubbing, a leftover skill from her cottage days, when Azriel stopped her.

“Magic, remember?”

Elain huffed and took a step back from the messy dishes, which began cleaning themselves. “How could I forget?”

“How did you live without it?”

Elain shrugged, recalling easily the human life her heart clung to. Feyre and Nesta, she felt, had stepped into the skin of High Fae with ease, forgetting their miserable, monotonous mortality. It was harder for her, to accept what she was. For a long time, all she could think was that she was now the monster Graysen would tell his children, his and not hers, about at night. She tucked a strang of hair behind her ear, suddenly more aware of the point it shaped into.

“I guess it was a lot more hard work, but it was more rewarding than”- Elain clicked her fingers –“and getting what you want. You had to work for it.”

She liked that about the flowers. Here, the High Fae could demand a bloom even in the deepest winter. Yet they were never as beautiful, never as… soulful. 

“Oh,” Azriel said as he began pouring the tea, taking care to grab the hot metal with a cloth. Elain tried not to look at his hands, the ones she had once called beautiful, lest he feel self-conscious. She noticed he would often tuck them behind her back if he caught someone watching too long.

“How come you’re interested?”

He shrugged, pouring two cups of hot tea, before sliding want to Elain, who heaped two sugars into hers. “Information is my trade. Besides,” continued Azriel as he retrieved some milk, “with the Wall down, I need to know as much about our allies as possible, figure out if we’re going to stay on friendly terms.”

Elain admired the reveal, how he did not hide the complex politics from her. It was a lot more important to know when you were a key player on the board, whether she wanted to be or not. She knew well of her status as sister of the High Lady of the Night Court, though she had done damn little to deserve the respect people gave her for it.

“Plus,” added the shadowsinger, splashing a modest bit of milk into his brew before pausing to take a sip, “I like to learn about different walks of life.”

She added milk to her tea until it was nearly the same colour as she was, cooled. “I suppose curiosity helps, being a Spymaster and all.”

“Sometimes.” A hardness glazed over his eyes, though he had blinked it away when he met her eyes again. Then he peered at her tea and a little disgust curled his lip. “How can you drink your tea like that? It’s paler than Cassian every time someone mentions Bryaxis.”

A huff of laughter escaped her, but she took the cue. He did not want to discuss spying further. She would give him that, as he had given it her.

It did not escape her, what his job entailed.

Torture. Threatening. Darkness. Not just cruelty, intentional cruelty. There had to be a certain- detachment he was capable off. A part of him that denied the… humanity, she supposed, capable of all creatures. Azriel even looked the part, with his claw tipped wings and numerous scars, the legendary dagger that never left his side. She did not think she had ever seen a colour on him other than his usual ebony and the deep blue of his siphons.

No, that was not true. There had been red on him. Lots of red. The same as her.

Yes, the male before her was lethal. Capable of wilful harm. She would never forget the cold, sharp calm that would creep into his eyes whenever he evaluated a threat. Enough biting ice to rival Kallias, High Lord of Winter. But she refused to see just that part of him.

She knew what it was like, to be looked at only as a fraction. Graysen had seen her beauty and sweetness, yet none of the intellect that threatened his. Lord Nolan, his father, saw a handsome dowry. Hybern had seen a tool to use against her sister- a weak little girl with all the strength of a mortal heart. At least that underestimation served her in the end, Elain though grimly.

Azriel, like her, deserved not to be left in the shadows all the time. He deserved to be seen.

Sat before her as he was, with flour dusting his dark hair and chocolate stains around his lips, all she could feel was the warmth of the hand offered to her on arrival from the House of Wind as he asked politely if she had wanted to see the garden. All she could hear was the soothing tone as he told her she was a seer. Not mad, not broken, a seer. All she could see was the relief in his eyes when he had gotten her back from Hybern’s camp with Feyre. The great kindness and sorrow that swirled in his eyes, even now.

It was hard to hate the Devil when he had a heart capable of such immense compassion in such a quiet way.

“Don’t judge my tea.” Elain took a defensive sip and smiled broadly at the shadowsinger, who gave a soft one back, one that lightened his shadows a bit. Her eyes followed the way they curled about his face, grazed his high cheeks and sat on his shoulders. She leaned forward a bit, eyes never leaving the swirling darkness. “Are they alive? You’re shadows I mean?”

They seemed to tickle his cheeks in response, drawing a more humoured smile from him, which in turn Elain reflected. “In a way, yes.”

“Are they like pets?”

Azriel’s brows raised a bit and she worried she might have come across as rude. But he wet his lips and told her, “No, more like an extra sense.”

“Ah,” nodded Elain, understanding, before turning her eyes to her pale tea, marvelling how she was more tanned than it was now. All that sunbathing did one thing at least. “Must be useful.”

Unlike her. Even with her visions, she was of little help. They were so uncontrolled, so unruly, like trying to keep a grip on sand or water.

A thick silence settled between them, neither looking at each other. Azriel seemed to be waiting but she did not know what she wanted to say.

“It didn’t always feel that way.” Azriel did not look at her, did not even glance to check if he was listening as he unravelled a little thread of himself for her to add to her collection. Elain turned fully to him. “When I was… locked away, I thought I was going mad. I was just a child, I didn’t know or understand why the dark was whispering to me.” He shook his head, as if still baffled by it. Elain noted his clenched fists, though she was even more shocked to find her hands had started to curl tightly.

He quieted again and Elain could not bear the lost look in his eyes, as if he were just a little boy again. The look reached for the maternal artery of her heart, drawing her own confession from the deepest reaches of it. “That was the worst part for me too. Not knowing what was real or not real.”

Azriel looked back up and she offered a small smile of encouragement that seemed to work, for he cleared his throat and the boyish look fled from his eyes. “When I learned it was alright, good even, I felt so relieved. Then I realised my gift came with both liberties and restrictions. I spent most of the war at Rhysand’s father’s side, his personal shadowsinger. People would look at me, even the worst of them, with such fear in their eyes.”

Elain noted he was a very still speaker. He lacked the animation of Cassian when telling a drunken brawl story (his personal favourite being the explanation of why he got banned from the Summer Court, even though it was only one building) or the dramatic theatricality of Rhysand and Mor, who really ought to star in their own duo play. The only part of Azriel that moved was from the neck up and even those were limited, clipped movements.

Yet he enchanted, hypnotised. It was more his voice than anything. Deep and smooth, like an empty well, rich in subtle emotions only close friends could detect.

Elain felt obliged to sincerely insert, “You never frightened me.”

“And that’s why you fit in so well. Why you’re one of us.”

Elain looked away, to cupboards that housed everything from plates, food and even spare bits of Amren’s jewellery that Cassian hides to torment her when he felt either brave, stupid or was drunk. “I’m not though. Not really.”

The frown that creased Azriel’s brow went unnoticed by the female. “What do you mean?”

Toying idly with her mug, Elain gave a shrug, still not meeting the concern in Azriel’s eyes. “Everyone’s got an important job- a purpose. They’re all skilled and productive.” A hardness like raw iron coated her voice, brittle and untampered. “Yet I just sit here like a leach doing nothing but living off the wealth of a people I have done nothing for.”

Hot needles seemed to prick her eyes and she pressed them closed, damning the salty water. She did not want Azriel to see her cry. Did not want him to worry. 

“Elain, you know that’s not true.” There was both softness and firmness in the words, like a good safety net to fall into. “You helped slay Hybern. You are one of the biggest reasons my Court can have peace and wealth and- chocolate cake!”

A little chuckle emitted from her at the utter conviction with which he said the last words and she felt she could open her eyes because of it, even though he had mentioned Hybern. She did not look at her hands. Concern was tucked into every crease and shadow on Azriel’s defined features.

She had never really thought of him as handsome. To her, his face had always seemed interesting, a puzzle to piece together. The guarded eyes that held feelings as fleetingly as matchsticks, yet could also hold bonfires of joy. The brackets around his shapely lips that either came from frowning deep and sullen or smiling long and hard. She realised she might have shared a little bit more of Feyre’s soul than others thought, for Elain appreciated the artistry of Azriel’s face, the solidness of it. As though he had not been birthed, but carved from the earth.

Of course, there were his hands. Cruelty and beauty moulded into every melted whorl, misery and pain against kindness and loyalty. All the things those hands had done. Could do.

“I need something to do, Azriel.” She ran a hand through her hair, ruffling her fringe. “I can’t keep on sitting here, rotting.”

She did not miss it when his eyes darted to the garden and back again, the light from the window bringing out the flecks of green in his hazel eyes. “Have you thought about what you want to do?”

Elain blew a ripple of air through her lips, which had since regained their colour and rosiness. “That’s the thing. I don’t know.”

Of all the things she despised about her gift, she hated how it revealed nothing about her own future the most. A little divine direction would have been useful round about now.

Azriel shifted in his seat, huge wings shuffling against the floor. “Well…” Slowly began Azriel, tentatively, the same way she had heard Rhys speak to Amren when he was about to propose some daring-do idea. She braced herself. “I- I wouldn’t mind learning how to garden. To grow things.”

Her head was shaking before her reply tumbled all too quickly out of her mouth. “I don’t think that it would be a good idea.”

The way his face sank for the first second made her feel like she had just trodden on a puppy. 

“Alright.” He schooled his expressions into neutrality again and she wanted to kiss his cheek for dropping the subject.

At the same time, there was the overwhelming want for him to ask. To probe around that wound.

Azriel, rarely, but more frequently over their time knowing each other, folded back his shadows to let her have a look at him. Almost like a trade offering, encouragement. A piece of him for a section of her.

She wanted to tell him, she really did. Wanted to give him something back. Felt the words race up her throat and crash painfully into the back of her teeth. Tell him why she could hardly stand to look at her hands clean, let alone covered in earth. To tell him how she, having contributed to death, did not deserve to cultivate life.

Then the wave of realisation overwhelmed it all, how selfish she was being, how silly. She helped to end a war. What was one life, one corrupt, evil life, against the thousands she had saved? How could she want two things at once? He was not daemati, like her sister and Rhys. He could not know what she wanted to say, how she wanted him to ask and not ask at the same time.

She pressed her palm to her brow, thinking she really needed to sort out her head.

That maybe, the best way to start was by telling the male before her, the male who had been watching and waiting a very long time, like a sentient, kindly gargoyle.

He nodded at her, urging her to open up. When the others did that, she felt like a rose bud being forced to bloom by magic in winter. Azriel’s encouragement was steady and natural: water and sunlight.

Elain took a deep breath.

“Azriel!” Feyre jumped with a hand over her heart as she winnowed into the kitchen, Rhy’s hand casually around her waist. “I didn’t know you were here! Isn’t it your day off?”

Azriel looked to Elain as if to say they would continue this later, but she decided there would be no later. “I came to visit Elain.”

The seer was surprised at this and felt a little warmth stir in her heart at the knowledge.

Rhysand smiled down at her, a knowing glint she could not understand in his violet eyes. “Good afternoon, sister. He’s not been such miserable company, has he?”

“No, not at all.”

Feyre sniffed the air, and, ever guided by her stomach, said, “Is that chocolate cake?”

At which point she noticed the batter still smeared around Azriel’s face. For the second time that day, he was laughed at by an Archeron sister, while the other crept silently out the door, leaving the conversation behind her.

Yet even when she returned to the modest, well-lit townhouse library, she still felt shadows clinging to her. And not the sort that whispered comforting things and good advice.

…

Feyre came up half an hour later, a plate of generously sliced cake in one hand and the rest around her lips.

“Oh, you are a good sister,” beamed Elain, digging into her piece before Feyre proved her statement wrong by gobbling it all up.

“Who knew Azriel was such a good cook?”

And knitter, Elain knew, though she didn’t tell Feyre that, for Azriel wanted to defend the secret of his mysteriously well-crafted, woollen Winter Solstice gifts. She knew all of Azriel’s many little hobbies. Thinking back, she should not be surprised he got into baking.

“Read anything interesting recently?”

Elain scrunched her nose and handed Feyre yet another poorly written romance. “You really ought to tell Rhysand to invest in some books with more realistic smut.”

Feyre’s eyes widened, her two blue-grey eyes looking like marbles in milk. “Elain!”

“What?” Defensively said Elain. “I am older, you know. And I spent a lot more time outside when we were children. I knew about the birds and the bees before I knew about the birds and the bees.”

“Nesta and I thought we protected you so well,” went Feyre, voice soft with shock.

Elain’s full brows rose to sceptical heights. “Even if I was that ignorant, you and your mate expose me every night.”

The shade Feyre went, the gobsmacked, lead jawed expression on her face made her wish she had inherited the artistic talent, just to frame this moment. She burst into laughter and the younger Archeron followed, though a bit more bashful.

“I’ll tell him to shield the room next time.”

“Please,” Elain begged and meant it.

Their giggles died, though Feyre’s redness did not fade. She tapped Elain’s shoulder with her tattooed hand. “Are you alright?”

It was hard to put a smile on her face, put she carved one onto her lips and nodded.

“You sure?” Now it was Feyre’s brows that rose.

Elain nodded with extra energy. Just for good measure, she added, “Fine.”

Feyre peered over her head from where Elain sat on the plush, red window seat and into the garden bellow, as barren as a wasteland by faerie standards. “Still not touched the garden?”

Elain frowned, her brown eyes darkening like muddy puddles under clouds. “I’m not into that anymore.”

Feyre gave her a long, piercing look and Elain was grateful she had let Nesta train her how to guard her mind. Sometimes, she worried she concerned Feyre that much she might break her moral code and invade that last prison of secrets Elain had.

It was strange. How she wanted Azriel to see, but not Feyre. Elain felt it was because she had moved on. Feyre had earned her happy future, why should she keep dragging her into the past?

It looked like an effort, but Feyre dragged herself away. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Elain smiled back at her sister, heart filled with love at her understanding.

Then she was left alone, her cake finished and her thoughts still stumbling over one another.

Why Azriel? Why did he feel right? Was it because of his darkness? The harshness of his occupation? She imagined it: her little grey drop of woe absorbed into the ebony ocean of his shadows. Perhaps if she told him, what nightmares still haunted her in daylight…

There was a shift in the garden and she looked down to see the very male occupying her mind now. She back far enough from the window so he would not see her, but she could still see him. A scarred hand came up to his chin and rubbed as he surveyed the dull grass and colourless garden, without even a weed to brighten it up. A great weight seemed to be dragging his shoulders down making even his powerful wings limp. Guilt coiled in oily tendrils around her heart. She had done that- brought him down. And on his day off too.

Suddenly, she was shaking her head at the thought of revealing anything, brown eyes glazed over, the puddles now iced.

She would never tell him. Or anyone. Never make them worry. This was her own anchor to drag around with her. She would not drown the rest of them with her.

So, adamant in her decision, Elain Archeron plucked another book at random and unfolded it in her lap, trying to ignore the darkness perched on her shoulders like twin crows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy and as always, like and leave a comment. Two songs influenced this chapter: Thin Lizzy's 'Still in Love with You' and Neil Young's 'Helpless'.

Sleep came to Elain about as easily as The Suriel would spill its secrets to someone it detested.

After about half an hour of lying in bed, curled up with the covers over her head, she realised it was going to be yet another sleepless night. Sighing heavily and rubbing at her sore eyes, Elain threw back the covers and placed her brow against the knees that she curled to her chest, taking a moment to think as the cool night air kissed her naked skin.

It wasn’t as if Feyre and Rhys were keeping her up with their unholy noise making. Either they had taken an unusual and unlikely break from their night long activities or Feyre had remained true to her word and shielded the room. A vision hadn’t wrenched her from restfulness. So why couldn’t she fall asleep?

Elain shook her head, brown hair mussed and damp with a little sweat.

It was no use trying to figure out why. Many a night had she spent waiting for day light. At least this time she had no nightmares to remind her why she should be afraid of the shadows in her room. Still, even though it was well lit by the thinly curtained windows, Elain lit a candle, reminding herself as she did that the house was warded and a two person army a corridor down, should she need them.

Guilt pooled in the stomach at the thought, the subconscious acknowledgement of another one of her reliance on them. Even in those desperate years in the cottage, what had she done to help? How could she, a year senior, have let Feyre turn so hard while she remained sheltered? How could she have let her provide while she sat idly and dreamed of the past? Those paints she had bought Feyre all those years ago she had done out of guilt, disguising it as kindness. She had known, deep in her bones, that what she enabled was wrong. Yet she did nothing.

Even Nesta had the heart- as a mortal –to go search for the sister, while she succumbed easily to the glamour of Tamlin and the splendour of aristocracy.

That’s all she ever did. Rely and succumb. Crumble.

She closed her eyes, trying to keep the tears in, the thoughts out. They were harder to fight in the darkness, in the midnight hours.

Even when she did something decent, it haunted her. Sticky, phantom blood seemed to coat her hands at that moment and she cringed, feeling the need to get off the plush, pink quilted bed and get some air.

All the while, a voice whispering behind her, _You are not as innocent as they think you are. You are not as sweet as they think you are. Not as kind, not as pure. You are not as good as they think you are, Elain Archeron._

She glided over to the exquisitely carved desk, above which the window was placed, she threw back the curtains and cracked open the window, allowing the cool air to flood in, a balm to her throat and tiredness. Her eyes fell on the neglected garden beneath which seemed to look disappointedly back up at her. One leg was poised to turn toward the door, march her down, drop her to her knees and make her kiss the earth in apology. The other grew lead heavy, anchoring her to the floor in fear.

She was glad, ultimately, Azriel had not pushed her about his sudden interest in gardening, even though hurt had darkened his eyes when she refused him. Still, there was a fraction of her, the barest kernel that wished she had had the courage to say yes.

_You are no longer a grower of things_ , the voice seemed to whisper, unnervingly like Hybern’s.

Elain’s shoulders sagged beneath the weight of the truth and she sank onto the desk chair, hardly feeling the plush velvet beneath her bare legs and against her back. She only ever wore underwear to bed now and nightgowns for slumber parties. Elain’s hands curled against the slouched folds of her lower stomach, right over her womb.

She was a woman- a female. Born to create life if she wished. Born with a power greater and more ancient than any Cauldron or weaponised spell the King of Hybern could have drawn from his sick grimoire. Hidden within her body was that chance, that which would always triumph over destruction: creation. She began to make idle circles on her stomach, taking the time to feel.

There was a reason the faeries worshipped the Mother and not the Father.

Elain sat up straight and peered down at the stomach that was rounding a little with her appetite. Her first thought was to start going easy on the chocolate cake. The second…

Speedily, lest the urge flee her, she snapped open the desk draw, retrieving paper and a pencil that magically sharpened itself. She smoothed the parchment out and set to work upon it, drawing.

First, she drew a massive ring, drawing lines at various, equidistant points to indicate gaps. She labelled it Mortal. The next inner ring, she divided into four sections, with gaps in between them all. To two opposing segments, she gave the titles Winter and Summer, pencil flowing like liquid beneath her skilled fingers. The next two opposing segments caused her hand to stutter and still. Her eyes went a little wide, her lips grew thin and it was took a moment of mustering the will that had suddenly arisen from her womb to label them Spring and Autumn. The Solar Courts came easiest to her: first the Night Court, swirling into Day, and ringing them- here, Elain imagined an outburst of brilliant golds –Dawn. She set the pencil down and sat back, surveying the rudimentary plan, finding it… lacking.

There was a dark chuckle from the back of her mind that she knew was not real, but made her think of crows cawing on a battle field none the less. _Lost your muse, gardener?_

Elain closed her eyes, seeking the silence of her mind and the instinct a million females before her had found from that sacred place. It floated up to her like a cloud, then came rushing out of her pencil like rain and water.

Elain drew a peak, a hill of sorts, plotting out her rings of Courts and Mortal Lands around it. Yet this time, placed in the centre of Day and Night, crowning the pike, a fountain. Frowning in distaste, she changed the fountain into a more natural pool, making note to decide whether she would put benches around it or not later. She sketched the water trickling down and a rough trench for it all to flow into. Surely, there would be some magic for that. Satisfied, Elain held up her plans to the moonlight, as if to show the world.

Part of her recoiled at the thought and told her she ought to start with the Inner Circle first. She looked down at the paper again, throat going dry at the thought. Hybern began cawing again.

_What’s the matter, girl? Green fingers gone red?_

Elain drew a deep, steadying breath, trying not to think about that voice, how real it sounded.

He had spoken to her, when he called her from the Illyrian camp with the Cauldron’s siren song. Chained her himself and paraded her through the camp like a roast pig, letting them leer at her, sniff at her hair and claw at her shift. She had thought he might give her to them, as an insult to her sisters. Then, upon being thrust into his bone coloured tent, more a mausoleum than anything, she realised he might want to save her for himself. She had wept harder then, especially when he lifted her chin, fingers like shards of glass, and smiled down at her.

“My, you’re a pretty one,” he had said, eyes gleaming with malice. He cocked his head in such a way that reminded her of a cat surveying a canary, dark hair falling limply to one side.

She did not know what had come over her at that very moment, but all her blood seemed to flow hotter, her heart swelled with wrath. She threw her head back did the most unladylike thing. The glob of spit landed on his ruddy cheek, but she did not see that as his hand reeled back to smack her. The immortal strength easily broke the skin on her lip and she felt the sting all the more for the salt in her tears.

“Tell me, does defiance run in your bloodline or is it learned?”

She didn’t answer, could barely do so over the roaring in her ears and the constellations marring her vision.

“I thought you were the sweet one.” The predatory angle came to his head again, the grin back in full force of malice. A jaguar in skin, that’s what he was. “Perhaps I shall have a taste later.”

Her heart ceased beating at the comment and he shoved her behind some curtains, leaving her for hours to weep and wait. Even then, she had done nothing to save herself. When a shadow finally did come, black and terrible against the curtains, Elain’s mind fluctuated between fighting or giving up. It was only when she saw the hands, gnarled and warped, like melted wax, did her heart start to beat again.

The memory was still there, the question still hanging in the air: would she have fought for herself if her sister and Azriel had not come?

_No,_ Hybern said. _You would not have fought. You would have let me win. Just like you will let me triumph now._

Elain looked at her trembling hands. Then she curled them into fists, teeth clenching suddenly.

“No.” She said the word, for she could speak, truly speak, and Hybern could not. She trembled. “I am going to do this.”

Yes, she was. She needed something to do and this would be it, this thing she was called to do, the innate need to create, to build and birth. To long had she wallowed in the wrong kind of darkness. To long had she let forked tongues whisper things in her ear no one else could hear. It was enough.

Elain did not immediately go to sleep, afraid she might snooze away her new resolve and find it to be vapour in the morning. Instead, she added adjustments to her garden, her plans for travel. By the time dawn came, she was ready, seven letters for six High Lords and one mortal Queen waiting before her.

At a more reasonable time, she dressed herself in a darker blue with white thread patterns, hoping the mature colour would help persuade the Inner Circle. She wished Mor were here to champion her cause against the barrage her sisters surely would hurl at her for her own good.

When she went down stairs to the kitchen, trying to muster determination in every step, Rhysand was digging into his breakfast of toast and tea at the island counter, reviewing what looked like some economic reports. He looked up and smiled warmly at her. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” replied Elain with equal warmth though she was twisting her hands in nervousness as she peered through all the kitchen exits. “Where’s Feyre?”

“Training with Cassian and Nesta.”

Elain nodded with a small, “Oh”, of realisation, remembering they mentioned going to the Steppes together. Perhaps it was better. If she could get one hurdle over, the rest would surely follow. She couldn’t stop the pessimistic thought that followed: if Rhys was a hurdle, Nesta was a mountain. She gulped and sat across from Rhysand, who looked up from his clearly important papers, devoting his full attention to her.

“Rhysand?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I was wondering- well, you’ve got a very nice city.” He peered at her expectantly, though a little pride twinkled in those violet eyes. Elain understood why Feyre would doodle them so much. “And I was hoping you might let me… build a garden maybe, please.”

His dark eyebrows went up at the same time his lips rose. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

Elain heaved a sigh of relief, breathing out, “You do?”

The nod he gave was enthusiastic and he set the papers down entirely. “Oh, yes. We need a bit of colour to compete with the Rainbow. Do you have any plans?”

Elain told him to wait and dashed rapidly upstairs only to find her plans gone. She checked on the desk, in the draw, under her pillows, out the windows in case they had blown out. Her jaw dropped in confusion, but she did not let that halt her. She retrieved some more paper and a pencil to re-draw the plans when she went down stairs. When she returned, supplies in hand, she found Rhysand surveying her rough sketches with a look of pleasant surprise softening his fine cut features.

“Can you not summon my things about without telling me, please?” Exclaimed Elain with an exasperated sigh of relief.

“No promises, my dear,” Rhys replied with a cheeky wink at her, finally looking up from the plans. There was an entirely different softness in his eyes then. “It’s a peace garden, isn’t it?”

Elain gave a small dip of her head. “Yes. I want to get flowers from all the courts and Queen Vassa’s land.”

He ran his thumb thoughtfully over his lips. “Are you having them sent or are you going to pick them?”

Thinking of Nesta, Elain rolled back her shoulders into a stiff, proud position, as if she had a pillar of still for her spine. “I want to get them myself. Travel for a bit.”

“The Solar Courts will be safe. Winter and Summer to.” He tucked his full lower lip into his teeth, worrying at it. “But Autumn and Spring…”

Elain felt storm clouds above her head, her stiff spine turning to mush as she slouched, anticipating the rejection. “I know but- I really want to do this, Rhysand.” Pleadingly, she took his hand. “Please.”

All sorts of looks crossed his face. In one eye, she could see fear of her sister. In the other… “Oh, damn your doe eyes, Elain!”

She smiled, triumphant, having secured her first ally. Then, overwhelmed with glee, she threw her arms around her brother-in-law’s neck and felt his arms hug her in return. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Alright. You can get off now. You might infect me with emotions.”

Elain giggled and sat back with a retort of her own. “You’re right. I might catch the ‘Drama-Queen’ disease.”

Proving her point, Rhysand put a hand over his heart as if she had just shot him, causing her to laugh further.

They decided not to send the letters yet, lest they risk Nesta’s wrath, though Rhysand did compliment her on her on her preparation.

“We’ll make a politician out of you yet, Elain,” he had told her as they sat and talked in the kitchen.

They agreed on setting the garden up just outside of the city, in some nearby fields. By now, his reports had been completely abandoned in favour of helping her plan the garden, even adding the idea that perhaps instead of just a pond, at the top, there could be fish in it. He mentioned she ought to have a look at Thesan’s if she went to the Dawn Court. The only dispute they had was over the statue- his statue.

“It’s not a project to serve your vanity, High Lord.”

He pouted at that.

“One other request then,” Rhysand had asked quietly, voice feathery, eyes warm with affection yet liquid with a deep, sorrow. “In our Court’s section, please could you put in some moon flowers? They’re very pretty. White and night blooming. At one point, they look like stars.”

Elain tried to picture them in her mind, admiring the star like pattern and how it would fit into the planned motifs. “Of course. Are they your favourite?”

The smile he gave was sad and fleeting. “My mother’s and my sister’s.”

Thoughts came of her father then. The warmth of his brown eyes, the same eyes as her, like sun baked earth. The smell of ink and paper that clung to him. Sometimes, when she thought about him, about all the mortal parts she had lost, it felt like a scar. Like running her hand over a smooth surface to find a hole gouged out of it. But she made herself say, for her father would have wanted it, that he had like yellow poppies.

“They would have liked you, Elain,” Rhys told her, reaching forward to pat her head in a brotherly sort of way, the same way he probably did to his own sister. She felt a swell of love for him then, glad he was here.

Especially when there was a loud, house shaking thud above them. Elain jumped and looked to the rattling chandeliers. “What was that?”

An expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace curled on Rhys’ face. “If we duck for cover now, maybe we won’t die.”

It took Elain a moment to understand, then she heard the bellow of a beast, the most fearsome creature after Amren herself.

“YOU WINGED BUFFOON!”

“So my sisters are back then,” Elain said a little quietly, debating whether or not to wait until Nesta had calmed down to propose her ideas.

“Uh-huh,” confirmed Rhy, suddenly laughing loudly. When she enquired, he showed the image into her find, courtesy of Feyre: Nesta covered in mud from where Cassian had deliberately dropped her. Her light laugh joined his rumbling giggle, though he must have heard the nervousness beneath the surface, for he took her hand and told her, “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

Worries smoothed a little, she smiled and took a deep breath, squeezing his hand a bit. “Alright.”

Rhys sent a bit of mental advice to wait until dinner, where Nesta would be more palatable and bathed, while he went to go tell Feyre.

“Don’t worry, I can be very _persuasive_ ,” he said with a sultry tone and another sinful wink that made Elain dread to think. As he walked out, Cassian walked in, taking care to whack Rhys with his wing on the way in. Rhys stopped to scowl, “Prick.”

Cassian blew him a kiss. “As always.”

Rolling his eyes, Rhys went away while Cassian invaded the larders, conquering for himself some cured meat, bread and butter. He set them down before Elain, who was neatly straightening up her notes and diagrams, guarding them from her blabber mouthed brother-in-law-to-be, lest he spill to Nesta.

“You wanna a sandwich?” He scarfed through a mouthful of ham he did not have the restraint to resist.

“No, but I wouldn’t mind hearing why you dropped Nesta on her arse.” A little thrill of delight went through her at Cassian’s expression: dread and shock that she had sworn. Then it all smoothed out into a smooth, smug grin that said, Worth it.

“Take a gander into the future for me to see if I survive the hour.”

Elain closed her eyes and put her fingers to her temple, crinkling her face into exaggerated concentration. “I’m seeing… Oh, that’s not good- _oh, dear_.” She opened her eyes. “I hope you’re not overly fond of your…”

She trailed off and gave a pointed look down, causing Cassian to give a mock gasp and clench his knees together. “Go on then, what did she do?”

Cassian’s hazel eyes were like bonfires, sparking with delight. “We got into an argument at the Illyrian camp where we were training the female unit and checking up on things.”

“What about?”

Cassian pointed the buttered knife at her as a teacher might with a cane, saying in all seriousness. “Never you mind, all you need to know is the conclusion: _I_ have the biggest wingspan.”

Elain nodded, though she still did not understand.

“Anyway,” he licked his smiling lower lip, rough, still mud-spattered hands continuing the third of his sandwiches, “Feyre said if we couldn’t act like adults, she’d make us up like children.” His smirk turned devilish as he said, “So, she made us do trust falls. Suffice to say, I’m-”

“ _Dead_.” Finished her sister, suddenly appearing like one of the wraith twins in the door way that led in from the corridor, a look like an inferno reddening her face.

A shiver crawled down Elain’s spine as she watched Nesta, hair still damp from her two minute shower as she launched herself at Cassian, quicker than a wind demon, shrieking like a storm. Elain felt a gust blast past her as Cassian hurled himself across the table, out into the garden and up into the sky, Nesta screaming for him as he did. Elain had to admire how he kept a hold on at least two ham sandwiches while doing so and started to finish off his third by the time Nesta entered, face pinched red in fury. Elain pushed half the sandwich her way, as if she were appeasing an angry, ancient goddess.

“It’s kind of funny”-

The look that she shot Elain withered her humour. Then her eyes dropped onto her plans and diagrams, landing into them like two darts. The younger sibling smiled, hoping to soften the impact she was about to face with her sister’s ice.

“What are these?” Elain could not tell with her gentle tone was a mask or genuine.

“Plans,” she squeaked out, trying to look as non-suspicious as possible. “For a garden.”

Elain expected anger or some sort of bad emotion to cross Nesta’s sharp features, but there was only relief in her watery eyes as she turned them on Elain. “Really?”

The feeling seeped into Elain to and she nodded, knowing Nesta was likely half enthusiastic and judging by the not so subtle vibrations coming from upstairs, Rhysand was well on his way to winning Feyre over. It was not that she would not go without her sister’s permission, she would just feel better with their blessings.

“Rhysand said I could build one right outside Velaris.”

Nesta listened closely as Elain explained her diagram and the extensive notes Rhysand had made with her, skimming over how exactly she would get the flowers. By the end of it, Nesta was nodding.

“It would be good to get you out of the house.” She looked up to the chandelier which was still rattling slightly. It paused a moment and both Archeron’s sighed in relief, only for it to start shaking again.

Elain decided to seize her chance while Nesta was settled and Cassian was not here to antagonise her. “There’s… one other thing.” Already, Elain was wincing under Nesta’s gaze, even though it was merely enquiring, not wrathful. “I’d like to go visit the courts, travel a bit, to get the plants myself.”

Nesta’s brassy hair bobbed as she shook her head. “Elain, no. It’s too tenuous! What if something happens?”

“I wasn’t going to go on my own,” argued Elain, voice growing higher with desperation, though she seemed to shrink further and further. Nesta’s gaze had turned to summer sunlight and Elain was an ice cube. “I was going to get someone to come with me. And Mor’s in Winter for a few more months, so I’ll be safe there.”

“What about Autumn? Spring?” Nesta through the words as lethally as arrows, knowing they would conjure memories of a severed bond and a horned, golden monster. “Mother forbid you get caught in the mortal lands.”

Elain started quietly, again, nervously wringing her hands. “Queen Vassa said”-

“It’s too dangerous.” The wave of her hand was like the hammer of a judge, slamming down right on Elain’s plans. “I can’t let you go.”

Elain felt her lip lower in a pout, then her brows in frustration. “You tell me for weeks to get outside, to do something. I finally have something to do, something I want, and you’re denying it me?”

Nesta settled her hands on Elain’s shoulders. “Elain, I love you, but the risk is too great.”

“I am not a child, Nesta.” It was an effort, not physically, but mentally, to shake off Nesta’s hands, swat them off like flies, even though throughout all her life they had been a cloak of comfort. “I only wanted your blessing, not your permission.”

Nesta took a step back from her, eyes assessing as though she thought Elain were a kitten, now finding her a lioness. Eyes narrowing, she angled her head, still trying to figure her out. “Has something happened?”

Elain gave a heavy, rickety sigh and rubbed her hands across her brow. It was an effort to keep her voice even, pleasant. “No, I just really want to do this.” To prove a point. To prove it to herself.

“Why won’t you stay in Velaris? Get your flowers here?”

It took Elain a moment to realise that was desperation lining her sister’s tone. The unnaturalness of it made a slug of guilt curl in Elain’s gut, but she forced the words quietly from her mouth. “Because we weren’t the only ones in Prythian that suffered, Nesta.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside and Feyre came in, flush staining her cheeks, hair in disarray, smile melting away as soon as she sensed the tension between her elder sisters. She looked inclined to winnow away, but stepped tentatively into the kitchen using all her huntress’s quietness. Elain’s eyes did not leave Nesta’s as the youngest Archeron subtly positioned herself between the two.

“Feyre,” began Nesta, crossing her arms in that stubborn way of hers. “What do you think about Elain wandering the Courts alone to look for flowers?”

Before Elain could cut in that she would not be alone (though she did not know who she was to invite yet), Feyre began. It was not the voice of the High Lady that spoke, but of a mortal sister who had provided for her through the most skin-stripping of winters.

“I can’t say I’m overly thrilled.”

Mentally, Elain damned Rhysand for not being as _persuasive_ as he thought he was.

“But,” she said, voice changing again, shifting as she had been shifted, “I understand. So I won’t stop you.” It was Feyre the Broken who spoke then, the female who had been locked in a rose covered prison.

Elain did not wait to hear the explanation as she got up and launched herself at Feyre, swinging her arms around her neck and kissing her sister’s soft cheek. “Thank you!”

Arms curled around her, entangling in her waist length, golden-brown hair. The clatter of a chair as it collapsed on the ground was the only sound of Nesta’s leaving.

…

Half an hour later, she was standing before a small, grey stone house on the Sidra front with a very broad, blue door that matched the tiles on the roof, Cassian at her side, still looking over his wings less Nesta jump at him from the shadows.

She peered up at him. “Why is the door so big?”

Cassian flared his wings in response to the delight of a few children passing by and Elain gave a small noise of understanding and knocked on the door. There was a loud thud inside, like a falling body, then hasty clattering of glass and general shuffling about. The pair at the door exchanged puzzled looks before Azriel opened it, top shirt buttons undone as though he’s just shoved it on and hair mussed from sleep. She had never seen him look so… human. Unorganised. A scowl already contorted his face. He blinked at the bright day light, then gave a bleary and surprised smile to Elain, which she took as a good sign for what she was about to ask.

That was Feyre and Rhy’s condition. If she had to go, someone had to go with her, which was no skin of Elain’s nose. Nesta would obviously decline, and Feyre and Rhys were occupied with the Court, so she had asked them to summon Cassian.

“Sorry, little one,” apologised Cassian, though Elain thought his refusal might be more to do with her sister than anything else. “I’ve got to keep the Ilyrians in check. Why not Az?”

Feyre had objected on his behalf, claiming he was a bit occupied with spying and what not. Rhy, Mother bless him, said that he could take on the work until they came back, now Feyre could share the load as ruler of the Night Court. There were no more arguments after, only anticipation of Azriel’s answer. If not, then Elain would have to wait for either Mor or Amren to return. Inside, she nursed a secret hope Azriel would say yes.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Elain noted the dark smudged beneath his eyes, evidence of restlessness and made a mental note to help if she could. Already, her mind was turning to lavender, or perhaps jasmine, to make an oil to aid with sleep.

He shook his head, clarity coming to his eyes in one blink, though he was clearly lying. “Anything I can do for you?”

“I need a favour.”

“Yes?”

Before she could reply, Cassian nudged past her and barged past Azriel. “Move, prick.”

Azriel scowled, but gestured for Elain to come in. She had never been to Azriel’s home before.

The living room was joint with the kitchen, separated only by a counter. There was one set of stairs that led up to what were presumably the bathroom and bedroom. All the curtains were drawn, giving the room a stuffy and stifled atmosphere. There were no decorations, no ornaments. Just a small, practical clock on the wooden mantel piece and a packed bookshelf. Littering various desks on every surface were neatly stacked papers: reports, charts, intercepted letters… Cassian marched into the kitchen and threw open the back door to what she assumed was Azriel’s garden.

“Let’s get some fresh air,” he muttered, tossing back the curtains too. “It’s like a pig sty in here!”

Azriel shook his head at him before shifting some papers from the plush, burgundy couch for Elain to sit down. Azriel took a chair opposite, closer to the unlit fire, fingers rising up to pillow his cheek. “What can I do for you, Elain?”

“You know how you wanted to learn gardening?”

Cassian gave a scoff from where he rooted in Azriel’s cupboards under the sink. “You? Gardening?”

“Cassian, behave,” chided Elain, tone turning motherly.

Azriel paused to launch a well-aimed pen at Cassian, which, by the loud, “OW!” he gave, must have hit something soft.

“Go on,” he said to Elain, his eyes alight with either the success of his shot or her proposal.

“I was planning building a garden.” Those words were easy now, she had said them that much.

“Of course I’ll help.” Azriel leaned forward, eyes even brighter.

Elain smiled under his enthusiasm, though shock quickly took over when his scarred hand suddenly shot out, halting the path of a spoon before it collided with his head. He shot Cassian a look that could make a cactus wither, the other male merely shrugging from where he stood in the kitchen before resuming his invasion of the cupboards.

“Good, because there’s one other thing…”

Azriel listened carefully. Elain watched the distaste curl his features a bit at the mention of Spring and Autumn, but other than that, he seemed to welcome the idea.

“What about work?” Two pairs of eyes surveyed the surrounding mountains of paperwork.

“Rhysand said he’ll cover it.”

A pause. Then he got up. “I’ll think about it.”

Her heart deflated a little at the answer, but she accepted the broad hand he offered her, letting him pull her up.

“Alright. Thank you.” She turned to the cupboards to find Cassian stuffing his face with Azriel’s food again. “Are you coming home?”

Terror flashed in his eyes and he said through a mouthful of cake, the same from yesterday she realised, that he better stay clear of Nesta for a bit. “You run along though. See you soon?”

He gave a cheery wave as Azriel walked her to the door. At the lip, she turned, eyes pleading. “Please consider it. I would be really glad if you came.”

Not just for his protection, but for his solid, quiet presence that gave her confidence. She probably would not have been driven to the idea, would not have felt the confidence of it fill her, had he not ignited the need.

He nodded once, curtly. “I promise.”

She believed him and said her goodbyes to both Illyrians, steps light as she walked along the sparkling Sidra home. She did not hear the crash behind her as she turned the corner, lost in her own fragile hopes.

…

Azriel just had time to duck before Cassian’s aim hit true, glass smashing against the wall. Snarling, he span around and yelled, “You better stop throwing shit around my house now, Cassian!”

The frown on his brother’s face was the sternness thing, worse than the battle hardened look he would level at his foes with lethal intent. His lips grew thin and pale with rage, cut across his tight jaw like a white scar.

“What?” Snapped Azriel, regretting coming out of his nap for this.

Cassian raised another missile, making sure Azriel got another good long look before it was launched at him. Azriel threw up a blue shield and let the dark, empty bottle smash against it. The shadowsinger’s guts sank to his feet in realisation, leaden with guilt. He dropped the shield and Cassian lowered the third bottle he had primed, also empty, though the look would not fade from his face. He and Nesta were going to have one fearsome child between them.

“You promised me, Az.” His words were quiet, yet laced with rage, deadly as darts.

Azriel cast his eyes down at his bare feet, wings and shoulders slumping at the switch in positions. Here he was, Azriel, the quiet one, the sensible one, being talked down to by Cassian. _Cassian_. Mr-I-Only-Wrecked-One-Building-Mother’s-Tits-Let-It-Go.

“It was just a few drinks,” defended Azriel, walking over to the kitchen cupboards he had hastily shoved several bottles into upon scenting Cassian and Elain’s scent. Thank the Mother Cassian had at least the mercy to spare him her judgement. No, not her judgement. Her loss of faith. She thought he was a good male. He gripped them and tossed them into the bin outside, in which they clattered against more bottles.

“You promised.” The hardness morphed now. Changed into something more strained: pity.

Something in Azriel began to coil back in anger at the thought, readying to strike. But he forced his voice to be level as he told him, “It’s only to… level out my thinking, Cass.”

Fists balled and head shaking, Cassian began, “Well, that’s how it starts, isn’t it? Just a drop to help you sleep. Then a cup. Then another. Then it’s two bottles a night, isn’t it, Az?”

He couldn’t even muster the will to deny it. “Just… Just let me sort myself out, alright? It’s nothing serious.”

“But it is!” Snapped Cassian, baring his white teeth. The anger burned bright as his siphons in his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by that pitying look that Azriel had to look away from lest he punch Cassian’s teeth down his throat. “Az, you know how you get when you drink.”

“You’re taking this too seriously. It’s just a drink.” He threw his hand at him in an accusatory gesture, the kettle calling the pot back. “You drink to.”

“Yeah, but I’m not a bad drunk. You get… bad, Azriel.”

Oh, didn’t he know it. After every war, every battle, any time work got hyper-stressful…

It was like a bad relationship. There she was, curved to his palm and full of liquid delight and oblivion if he pursued her enough. The break up inevitably came, the rebound of sobriety that lasted all of a month at best, how that crumbled. Then there she was again, whispering, _I’m still in love with you…_ It always ended the same way. Sat, alone, down stairs in the dark, bottle like a ball and chain in his scarred hands and his shadows whispering songs to him. Forgetting all the blood on his hands. Forgetting all the pain. Helpless, helpless, helpless…

“I could stop if I wanted.” He said it more to appease Cassian than himself. He was under no illusions.

“Prove it.” Cassian held out his hand, preparing for the bargain. “You’ll take Elain on her quest and you’ll not touch a drop.”

Elain. The thought of the female even hearing this conversation had his toes curling. What would she think of him drunk?

“I said I’d think about it. Not that I’d go.”

“You better not let her down, Azriel. She’s got her heart set on this.”

He knew. His shadows could sense her excitement even before she stepped through the door. In truth, he was thrilled about the idea of a break, especially when she offered to teach him gardening, to _grow_ things. But spending that much time with her…

He did not want her to return to the Court with a distance between them when she began to realise how he could be. What he really was. He wanted to keep the illusion. Just a little longer. Be the male that baked the cakes and did the knitting, not for distraction.

“If I win?” Dryly said Azriel, looking down at the hand. Cassian’s fingers were eagerly splayed, while his own were curling at his sides.

A familiar smirk came to Cassian’s face, challenge written on every glinting tooth. “Then I won’t kick your arse.”

Azriel looked at the extended hand as though it were a cobra.

“Do it for me.” He still hesitated. “Please.”

Their eyes met then, matching hazel, common Illyrian features for common Illyrian bastards. He saw the pity swirling in them. That and encouragement. The will for him to change.

With a heavy sigh, Azriel took Cassian’s hand in a firm grip.

…

Cassian arrived with word of Azriel’s news not an hour later. She was so thrilled she graced his rough cheek with a kiss and gave her neatly written letters to Rhys to send off.

There were letters back within the first hour.

Winter was the first to reply with two letters, from the High Lord and High Lady, bound in velvet ribbon and stamped with silver wax. Kallias’ was short and to the point, but no less enthusiastic than Viviane’s excited loops. Thesan’s came next with the promise of showing her his personal garden. Helion sent his and she was not allowed to read the letter, though she dearly wanted to for the gold sparkly ink he had written the words in. Feyre told her Helion agreed to let her come and that he would let her use his famous library. Then she incinerated the letter, muttering something about ‘keeping his filthy hands to his filthy self’. Summer came a day later, the scent of sea still on the page. Tarquin apologised for his tardiness and expressed the wish to see her soon.

Summer and Autumn did not reply. The mortal letter, if there was a reply, would have to come without magic, so Rhys planned on telling her without changes.

Elain was delighted, even more so by the fact she didn’t have to visit those dread courts. It was like someone had filled her bones with helium, she felt that good.

Feyre celebrated with her by taking her shopping for practical travelling clothes, tunics and whatnot. She was on her third, a dark blue thing with a semi-modest neckline and pretty silver threading. It was like going back in time for Elain and switching roles with Feyre. It was the first time she had worn clothes so… boyish, but she found she liked the freedom and comfort of pants. Mid way through, Nesta joined them, not saying a word.

Reluctant consent then. Elain could live with that and made an effort to soften her sister with conversation when the trio went to Rita’s for food.

“I am not happy about it, Elain,” Nesta said out of the blue, dabbing her lips with a napkin, not meeting her eyes. “But if you are…”

Elain squeezed Nesta’s hand in thankfulness, earning a small smile in return.

She frequently visited Azriel in the week leading up to their departure, just to go over their travel plans. He seemed to Elain… testier, as though he were struggling to keep his temper tethered. It was in the little things, how he would press his scarred fingers hard to his lip, his shaking knee.

At one point, she asked him, “Are you sure you want to come?”

Surprise crossed his face. “Of course.”

She looked deeply into his eyes, which now had pronounced bags underneath. “Alright. I believe you. But something’s… nothing’s wrong, is it?”

He shook his head and Elain had forced the expression enough to know what his smile meant, even when he said he was fine. He was not fine, but he did not want to talk about it. Elain looked at him a moment longer, willing him to change his mind, open up. Maybe she ought to push.

_He’s never done that to you though, has he?_

Elain did not pursue the subject.

By the morning they planned on winnowing to the Day Court, Beron’s letter had arrived.

They Autumn Court would be delighted to play host to one of the saviours of Prythian. The Inner Court let Elain decide whether or not she wanted to go, though Nesta was the loudest in her objections, rivalled only perhaps by Cassian. Mother, they made a fearsome team when fighting on the same side. It’s a wonder they did not beat Hybern sooner.

After breakfast, Elain, Nesta and Feyre gathered her heavy pack of clothes and camping supplies, lest they be caught in the wilderness looking for flowers and headed for the foyer at the bottom of the stairs. She was dressed in the blue tunic again, a breezy cloak of practical brown offset against cream pants and umber boots. Azriel was waiting for her, dressed in his Illyrian armour, looking more like he was to go to war than the luxurious palace of Helion.

He and Cassian seemed to be having a heated discussion. She had never seen Cassian look that serious since the war. Unnerved, she cleared her throat to announce her presence and the two males greeted them. Cassian blew a kiss to Nesta which she pretended to catch, then proceeded to violently stamp on. Unfazed, Cassian just winked at her.

“Have you got everything?” Azriel asked and Elain noted all the blades strapped to him.

He noted her gaze and told her, “Can’t be too careful.”

He knew how to use every one of those knives. Knew how to kill as quick as oiled lightning or slower than the movement of a glacier. It did not scare her as it would have done were her ears still rounded. It only made her very aware of the own dagger she now kept in her boot, curtesy of Feyre.

“He’s right, Elain. You stick with the shadowsinger.” Elain gave him a meaningful look that told her Azriel had already had a stern talking to from his sister.

Rhys walked in, leaning against the wall with a scoff. “It’s Azriel you need to warn to stick with Elain. We all remember your little outburst at the Dawn Court meeting.”

The shadowsinger shot Rhysand a dry look while Elain looked up to him, waiting for him to clarify, but Feyre cocked her head, cheeky grin on her face. “What did you say to Eris to make him blanch like that?”

Everyone’s eyes brightened at this, even Nesta’s, who said, “Yes. I was always curious.”

Dark, swirling shadows merely curled around Azriel’s face as he gave a smirk that only the Inner Circle could smile back at. “A spymaster never reveals his secrets.”

Cassian’s broad hand came to ruffle her hair, which she had put into her half up, half down fashion again. “You just come tell your big brother Cassian if he stars misbehaving.” He turned his gaze on Azriel, still smiling, but words a little pointed. “He _promised_ , alright?”

With that, Azriel’s smirk faded and the true goodbyes began. Gentle hugs and wishes of luck from her sisters. A spine crushing squeeze from Cassian that stole oxygen from her lungs and a nod of encouragement from Rhys, who kissed her brow fondly.

As she took Azriel’s hand, her small one fitting into his textured one like a warm glove, the High Lord of Night told them, “You have one year. Good luck, Grower of Things. Good luck, shadowsinger. I hope to see you soon.”

Elain was still smiling when the darkness whisked her away into a world of summer gold, Azriel’s hand tense around hers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, good morning, good afternoon readers. So, I thought it would end being one chapter in one court, than another at another court, but evidently, no. On the bright side, more chapters (if that's a good thing, you might think I'm a terrible writer who's butchering your beloved characters but oh well \\(¬¬)/). I finally read ACOFAS. I liked it. I don't get why there's so much hate for Sarah J Maas. I won't spoil it, but I don't think it should be getting all that hate. That intense scene of the steamy potatoes though... Anyway, getting back to the extra chapters thing, it might be a bit before our favourite couple do or do not boink. I will have to get over my fear of writing boinking scenes until then. I'll also have to find an alternative for the word 'boink'. Oh my God, you can imagine my classics class. All girls and one dude teacher and we're trying to describe what Dido and Aeneas did in a cave and this one girl is like 'they boinked'. I'm so glad I decided to study fake history. I mean, that's what classics is. We're on Greek theatre now which is great because I'm fucking dramatic. I'm not a drama queen, I am a DRAMA GODDESS. Hera ain't got shit on me. Any who, hope you found my rant mildly amusing. As always, leave a constructive comment. Or a critical one- it helps. I love replying to them. Oh, and this chapter features the Freddie Mercury of ACOTAR. Helion would have a Queen shrine, Queen quilt covers, posters and a personal tribute band to sing him to sleep. Fight me if you disagree.

Azriel’s shadows parted like smoke around them, revealing a glimmering palace of pristinely white marble not far ahead, sat on a peaked, flat topped hill. The cloudless sky framed the view like a expertly crafted tapestry. Gold and rare splashes of silver adorned everything, from the tower tops to the door handles and including the uniforms of the stern faced guards who patrolled the golden gates. He counted the pairs what he could with his eyes and sent his shadows to detect the rest, recoiling them back from the impressive wards around the palace. It would not do to appear to be nosing around their nearest ally’s home. Helion’s flag, baring the symbol of a burning sun, fluttered proudly on every spire.

 

Already he missed the darkness and stars of home. There were fewer shadows to sink into during the day.

 

Beside him, Elain gasped in amazement, eyes sparkling at the sight of the High Lord of Day’s abode, though she had not even seen the sprawling city below yet, laid bare upon the flatter part of the land like a field of wheat, seemingly unprotected without walls. Azriel knew better. His shadows were already reporting back to him all the wards about, reminding him just how potent Helion Spell-Cleaver was.

 

He did not realise he was still holding Elain’s smooth hand with his mangled one until she led him forward by it, an eager spring in her step and keen glint in her smile. “Come on!”

 

Her hair bounced as she dragged him towards the castle, the morning day light bringing out the copper and golden strands within the mass of earthy brown. They approached the stiff backed guards and by the time Elain had greeted them and presented them with Helion’s reply letter, Azriel had already counted the faerie’s weaponry, detected with his shadows the female’s injured leg (likely from the war, he presumed) and the male’s racing heartbeat.

 

The reaction was not new to him, though it was the first foot on his sensitive nerves since he entered the Day Court- and not ten minutes here. Fighting a premature yet soon to be undoubtedly warranted scowl, Azriel knew it would not be the last of his torments. If this male’s fear was a step, Helion would undoubtedly do a jig, a backflip and an acrobatic show upon his fraying control. He prayed to the Mother for the patience that usually came so easily to him.

 

Someone had to be the calm one when his brothers literally tried to out-stupid each other. He remembered distinctly one time when the pair had got drunk and he had caught them playing catch… naked… with a wasp hive. He fought the urge to rub an aching spot on the bridge of his nose at the memory, suddenly feeling the need to winnow back to save them from their lethal foolishness. Instead, he concentrated on the potential foes before him, cautious of the tenuous peace holding the Courts together.

 

Azriel watched the guards’ eyes settle on their clasped palms, even as Elain continued explaining how they were expected. Two pairs of eyes darted between their sweaty palms and their faces. He detected the guard’s heartbeats slow to the steady, yet excited beat of Elain’s.

 

He became suddenly aware of his thirst when the guards opened the gates, allowing them past onto the long, marble, orange blossom lined path that led into the glimmering palace. He knew they were still staring at their hands, which grew sweatier together in the summer air. Still, he could bring himself to let go of her, feeling like a ship wreck survivor and she was the driftwood.

 

Despite the gazes on his back, Azriel did not take his perceptive hazel eyes from the palace. It was so stunning Azriel wondered if it was there was a glamour cast over it to make it look the way it did. As it was, with a headache beginning at his temples, the bright lights were beginning to grate on his temper.

 

The first week was always the easiest, when his resolve was blazing at its strongest. The second week got harder for him, but he could usually weather that, if his family could bare his snappiness. The third week, he had to be in company. His determination was embers by then. He was unable to force himself into distracting tasks he made himself learn: knitting, sewing, crochet, painting (once, and with disastrous results) and, most recently, baking. That was probably why he had, as Cassian put it, ‘Fallen arse over tit off the wagon’.

 

In those later weeks, without people around him, he just sank in on himself a bit, got a little depressed. Then it could get like drowning. He was usually found by then, always by one of his brothers. Mor and Amren did not know, he hoped. Azriel still thought Cassian was exaggerating, as he was nowhere near dangerous yet, but he was glad his friend had reminded him when he was getting… bad.

 

As it was, the cloudless day providing no reprieve from the burning light, he was starting to regret his promise to Cassian and his agreement to go here. A bright swathe of royal purple appeared ahead on the marble steps, the golden crown that peaked the figures head flashing in his eyes. The inner wall his reluctance built for him to scale grew tenfold. It was only when Elain let go of his hand to greet Helion Spell-Cleaver did his regret recoil.

 

Something in him went loose at the friendly, comforting squeeze she gave his moist hand before she bolted.

 

He was grateful for her sudden change of heart, for the push it gave him to get out of his own head for a bit. This was all he needed. A shove in the right direction. A reason not to drink himself stupid. All he needed was to get past that awful sixth week, and he would be fine.

 

He watched her greet Helion with all the warmth of that summers day, throwing her arms around the taller male’s mid back and he in return, though his hands remained chastely on Elain’s back. Azriel would cut them off if they strayed further without her consent. Helion whispered something to Elain at which she giggled and gave a quiet reply. The wink he shot Azriel’s way had him snapping that prepared scowl onto his face, causing further patience shredding laughter.

 

It was going to be a long six weeks until then.

 

…

 

Elain saw Helion and quickened her pace, reaching him with enough impact he had to take a step back.

 

“It’s good to see you.” And she meant it.

 

Of all the Courts she was looking forward to, Helion’s and Viviane’s were the most exciting. After being rescued from Hybern’s camp, it was Helion who removed the purple stone binds. She was still in shock at that point, all her adrenalin gone and only hollow guilt to replace it. All she could see in those moments were Azriel’s shredded wings, his beautiful wings. All she could hear was Feyre’s scream as an ash arrow pierced her shoulder.

 

“Cheer up, now,” Helion had told her, lifting her lowered, tear-wet chin with gentle fingers. “You’ll make me cry and I can’t let the other High Lords see me like that. I’m an ugly crier. It’s the only time I’m not gorgeous, so please don’t cry.”

 

She had found it deep within her to rattle out a sob of laughter and she let him guide her to Feyre’s tent, where the three Archeron’s collapsed together into a drowsy, warm heap of brass and copper hair as well as tangled limbs.

 

The next day, before they began marching, she personally thanked Helion, who often sought her company on the trek to see how she was faring. Viviane, likewise, had also kept close to her, as well as guarded her from the harshness of the warriors around her, bitter from defeat and sore from fatigue. Together, ice on one side, sunshine on the other, her the jagged edges of her nerves were sanded for what lay ahead, weather worn by the elements embodied in her new friends.

 

“Good morning, sweet one.” It was his common pet name for her, as he thought she was the ‘sweet Archeron’. Elain fought the urge to cringe from the words when Hybern’s voice began cackling in the back of her head.

 

She did not know why the Illyrians were so objective to Helion sometimes or why Feyre had burnt his letter. She had never seen Helion be anything but kind and considerate- except in battle, but she tried not to dwell on those thoughts. The memories did not make her puke anymore, but they did coat her palms in uncomfortable sweat.

 

Elain had forgotten in those moments between the waves. Forgotten why she used to cling to iron and wish for ash wood. Forgotten why humans used to fear the dark and the strange, strange creatures above the walls. Plunged into the midst of war, she remembered it all. Violence, savage and brutal, reigned amongst the faeries she had thought to be so… human.

 

It took a lot longer than she wanted to find that familiarity in her friends again. To see Rhysand and Feyre as a loving pair of rulers and not two halves of one efficient killing mechanism. To see Cassian as just his charmingly roguish self and not the general that would launch himself down from the skies like an asteroid into Hybern’s ranks. Mor had been particularly difficult. Elain kept mistaking all her flashing jewellery for that deadly Seraphim steel. Surprisingly, Nesta and Amren were not hard. They had always kept an edge in their cold eyes.

 

Azriel was the saddest for her. In the fragile conception of their early friendship, he had been her human anchor. The male that would listen to her when she wanted to speak and keep her company when she was silent but could not bear to be alone. When she saw him on the battle field, as fierce and cruel as the stories that kept her awake at night even into adulthood, her heart had rang with the painful reminder of his otherworldliness. But he had come back over the months, quietly and in pieces that were still mending.

 

With the High Lord of Day, time had done its stitching back together, allowing her to supress red memories in favour of the golden ones. Perhaps it was the inner solar power within Helion that had her drawn like a sunflower to him. With that realisation, Elain made a mental adjustment to her plans, vowing to add the bright happy plant that reminded her of her friend.

 

Then, looking deeply into his darkly handsome face, the ebony hair, the golden eyes so dark they bordered on bronze, she saw there was a magnetising familiarity there. Somewhere in the nose and the cut of his lips, which smiled down at her in a sort of devilish way.

 

“I see you brought the good looking one. Oh, Elain, darling, you are a thoughtful dear.”

 

Elain laughed and stopped trying to place the familiarity.

 

Once, in a mortal world so far away and more restrictive than a corset, she might have been appalled to hear such a comment. That a man could love a man, a woman a woman, or both… The Cauldron might have ripped open her senses, but the Night Court widened her mind. Now, she was horrifically ashamed to have thought so disapprovingly of people who just wanted- and damn right deserved, in her opinion –to love. There was too much hate in the world for her to enforce such bigotry. She was among the first to defend those communities now, should she hear anyone slander them, expressing the hereditary Archeron fierceness.

 

“Why’s he sulking?” Helion said lowly, peering over her head at the Shadowsinger.

 

Elain did not know, though she did detect Azriel’s tenseness. Instead, lest he want to keep his business to himself, she told Helion, “Probably the weather.” It was likely true, given his ebony Illyrian leathers in the summer heat. Elain by now had foregone her own cloak, the material hanging limp her arm along with her pack.

 

“I know what will cheer him up.” She watched Helion give a sultry wink to her travelling companion and she did not need to turn around to see why the High Lord’s grin expanded. “Oh, I do love the way he scowls. Like a gargoyle with a stick up its arse.”

 

Elain pushed back from the High Lord she shared an easy banter with, poking him boldly in his firm chest. “Don’t you torment my friend.”

 

He reacted like Rhys would, a hand over his heart and exaggerated expression of hurt. She did not understand why the phrase ‘Drama Queen’ was so popular when the queen’s she had met had been practical, if mostly selfish, while the High Lords were ridiculously flamboyant, especially those of the solar courts. Thesan had been no exception, if the extravagant armour of his Peregryn legions was anything to go off.

 

“Sweet Elain, I thought I was your favourite.” He offered her his elbow with a teary huff, purple robes shifting about him as he turned. Elain took it and they began walking through the open marble halls, Azriel following behind silently through pillar supported rooms with windows and natural light everywhere. “Seems as though you have such excellent taste, I will forgive you.”

 

“Why, thank you.” Her voice echoed into the quiet hall, at the end of which sat a massive golden- of course –throne. Still looking around, Elain was prompted to ask, “Where are all the courtiers?”

 

The dismissing wave of Helion’s hand was practiced. A male used to getting his own way. “I sent them all away. I did not care to share such excellent company with them yet.”

 

Relief waved through Elain. She and people since the war… She did not like the way they treated her. Like some magnanimous saviour. All she had been that day when she slayed Hybern, when she felt his blood up to her wrists, spraying onto her cheeks like a demented blush, was a female defending her sister. Anything she had done that day had been for Nesta’s safety, not Prythian’s.

 

Upon catching Helion staring down at her with distaste narrowing his eyes, she asked if anything was wrong. “Do I still have breakfast on my face?”

 

“I need to get you out of those clothes.”

 

Azriel used his shadows to winnow to the blushing Elain’s side, a crisp breeze at her side, the barest breath of a snow storm. “Choose life, Helion,” warned the Shadowsinger, tone as flat and eyes frosty.

 

At which point the High Lord tutted, rolled his eyes, and said, “Not for that, you ignorant bat. They’re too warm for this weather, so put you’re jealous behind in check.”

 

Elain piped up, eager to diffuse any tension, especially when Azriel’s wings stiffened at the insinuation, the only sign of his irritation. “They’re practical travelling clothes, for when I’m searching for flowers.”

 

Genuine hurt flashed in Helion’s eyes then, un-theatrical and disappointed. “But I thought you would let me show you around first and research in my library beforehand.”

 

Elain apologised and told him, “I didn’t want to distract you from your work.”

 

Helion patted her hand softly, though his rough callouses scraped against her smooth hands, a testament to their underuse. “Elain, even if you were a distraction, you are a worthy one and it’s no worry of mine to entertain you.”

 

She nodded, her own worries soothed by the proclamation and allowed him to lead her and Azriel to their rooms. White robed servants were still bustling about, one carrying a vase of starburst marigolds into her room. She made a mental note to ask where she could find some later, her attention for the moment were being swept away by the magnificent room.

 

Helion’s wealth was evident in every tapestry, every grain of exotic wood, every intricate carving or bejewelled comb. The room, like everything else, lacked no gold nor light, by the great window above her head. In it’s centre, pushed at the head into the wall, a huge, canopied bed lay, sheets a bold crimson and surrounding gossamer curtains a billowy white.

 

“At night, you need only pull this,” he said, pointing to a thick tassel beside her plush, red covered bed, “and the curtains will cover it. But come over here a moment, my dear. Let me see if these fit you.”

 

She did not have time to reply before she was dragged over to the broad, expansive wardrobe, Azriel close behind, arms barred across his chest. Helion dived in, plucking out several light dresses of breathy cotton or smooth silk and satin, as easily as a heron plucks fish from a river. He held them to Elain’s figure, the curves of which were hidden by the bulk of her tunic. She caught Azriel’s raised eyebrow look, but kept her own face smiling, not wanting to offend their host.

 

“It’s fashionable in my court for females to bare their breasts. For all genders actually. We’re not overly prudish here.” Elain’s smile went stiff on her face and she was not sure if Azriel was breathing. Helion did not even look up, just held a high necked dress to Elain’s body and said, “Just a warning. I knew you would be too modest for that, Mother bless you, Elain.”

 

Her shoulders sagged with a releasing sigh and she clutched a hand over her breast, half in relief, half to protect it. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, Helion.”

 

With a dry look at Azriel, who had not let the harsh scowl leave his fine features, Helion commented, “I don’t think it’s your heart that would stop if _you_ flashed someone. Do you like them?”

 

Elain ran her fingers over the delicate material, finer than anything she could have dreamt up from her long ago mortal days. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

 

Helion just smiled down at her, warming her very soul with the pure friendship he offered. The High Lord, for all that slandered his name, had never made any advancements on her, as if sensed the bond they had was simpler than that. With the warmth of his eyes, the way he offered his hand, he reminded her of her father. Even Helion’s scent, the parchment and ink smell beneath his orange blossom perfume, made her think of him. Deep inside her chest, her heart swelled with love and sadness, her mind drifting like smoke all the way north to a seaside grave, the only monument to a great, loving man who pulled through for his daughters in the end.

 

Satisfied her last dress measured up to his estimations, for Helion had had them made for her, he returned the dresses into the closet and turned to Azriel, eyebrows lifted sardonically. “I assumed you wouldn’t be stepping foot out of those leathers of yours- not that I’m complaining –so I did not presume to have anything made for you. Oh, and your room is just opposite Elain’s.”

 

Azriel nodded, though he said nothing. Nor did he move. This reaction, or lack thereof, would not have usually worried Elain, had she not noted Azriel’s unusual terseness, even with her.

 

After the war, Rhys had one day revealed out of the blue that Azriel had never let anyone touch Truth-Teller, let alone wield it. By that, Elain knew she was some sort of exception for him, though she did not know whether he saw pity or potential in her. He hardly ever revealed his thoughts on his face, feelings like frost in his eyes. Melted away with a warm blink. Hardened to ice by extremity.

 

Was it her fault? For dragging him from his work to go do some silly little quest? It gnawed her bones that she did not know what was up with him, though she was careful to hide this.

 

Helion drew her from her thoughts with his satiny tone. “You get changed and I’ll be waiting for you at the gate to show you my city. Chop, chop now.”

 

He left the room without closing the door, only pausing at the threshold to blow Azriel a kiss in such a Cassian way she felt both humoured and homesick. Then curious.

 

Why were Cassian’s words, usually light with bubbly, extraverted joy, so pointed when he shot his goodbye to Azriel? She had been so distracted by the thrill of having everyone’s blessing, even Nesta’s, to go that she had not thought to question it.

 

The Illyrian remained by the door, staring blankly, as if trying to keep his frustrations within. The room grew stiflingly hot- and not just because of the summer heat. Suddenly, Elain was eager to get out of her already sweaty travelling clothes and into one of the Day Court’s breezy fashions. She dived into the closet and pulled out a selection of dresses.

 

“Help me choose one?” This seemed to draw Azriel out of his daze, blinking clarity into his hazel eyes, as if realising he was still in the room. He was like a gargoyle come to life.

 

“I wouldn’t know”-

 

Elain held up two. “Blue or pink?”

 

Azriel considered, giving a quick glance to his siphons. “Blue.”

 

The light material was far paler than the deep, sapphire of his siphons, more akin to the skies Azriel roamed when the wind took his fancy. The coolness of the shade however brought out the warmth of her skin. Perhaps out of the north, which remained on the brisk side even in summer, she could even out her tan and get rid of that pale band around her fingers. She did not care to think of Graysen much longer.

 

Realising she was about to get changed, Azriel made to roll out of the room, a faint blush on his cheeks. “I’ll wait outside.”

 

“Hang on!” Called Elain, halting his steps. He peered over his wing at her, eyes revealing nothing, neither frustration nor bashfulness. “I need to speak to you. In private. I’ll get changed behind the folding screen.”

 

Azriel quietly closed the door while she dived behind the folding screen by the inbuilt wardrobe. It was ornately made from stained glass so that on the other side, light poured through in a shattered rainbow over the exquisite carpets on the floor. She admired it only for a second before shrugging off her stiflingly thick tunic and pants, stripping to her undergarments. Her boots would have to remain as she forgot to ask where Helion kept the footwear. She did not mind, for she had more pressing matters.

 

“Azriel, are you alright?” She attempted to make the question casual, not probing or invasive, as Nesta was prone to be.

 

“I’m fine.” The words were curt and quick, as her own could be.

 

Elain debated whether or not to push at the same time she debated whether or not to remove her brassiere. With breasts as full as hers, she was not always inclined to let nature and the breezy dress do the supporting. She felt for any inbuilt cups in the dress as she commented, “It’s just that you seem a little… tense.”

 

“It’s not your fault.” Oh, he read her tone so easily. She wished she could do the same, to see if he had truth behind his words.

 

It was harder to detect Azriel’s moods. When she first met him, all those months ago, wings tucked against the cold, she thought the winter had frozen his features to his face. Even then, even as she still harboured her human fears, his stillness attracted her, tempting her toward him like ice over a frozen lake, just daring her to take a step and see what lurked beneath.

 

There was small tells she detected though, which grew more apparent after she came down from the House of Wind. How his shadows might swirl like muddy water if he was surprised or struck with anger. How the brackets carved into the sides of his mouth would deepen if he was supressing his amusement. The way his wings stiffened in embarrassment. Behind the screen, she had to rely on her pointed ears.

 

“You can go home if you want.” She felt obligated to offer it: choice. Something she had learned the value of only in the past year. “I won’t mind.”

 

There was a pause on the other side, making Elain halt as she at last decided to risk removing her brassiere.

 

“Elain, if I did not want to be here, I would have made an excuse. Helion,” confessed Azriel, voice going from loose string to taut in just those three syllables, “gets on my nerves. That’s all.”

 

Elain held in her breath a moment longer while she squeezed into the fitted dress, tucking up her breast into the surprisingly supportive cups and glancing down appreciatively at her assets. Though more modest than Feyre, Elain had learned with relish to shed the restrictive mortal fashions that decide what a woman could or could not reveal in front of a man. It was Mor who changed her perception with a few productive shopping trips that had dresses that both suited her style and flattered her figure. She had not seen a corset in months, thank the Mother. Though she had never worn something quite so… sensual- and just day wear!

 

“Good, I’m glad,” replied Elain, stepping out from the glass screen to find Azriel with his back turned, unwilling to even see her silhouette. The act touched her and she cleared her throat, causing him to turn around, eyes contemplative. “I don’t look silly, do I?”

 

“No,” he said plainly, eyes raking without lust over her, a casual assessment.

 

The sky blue brought out the glow of her skin and the mineral colours of her hair, from brass to copper to gold. Her bare arms, unburdened without jewellery, felt the kiss of the gentle breezes about the room, thanks to the balcony and window taking near the entirety of one wall. The sky blue dress had no sleeves, only straps made of more material decorated with bejewelled clasps. There was no need for a belt, for the fabric tightened around her waist snugly, emphasising her regained figure. Azriel’s stare lingered a little longer on her face, eyes still assessing.

 

“Your hair.”

 

Elain blinked and looked into the vanity mirror in her room (also lined with gold). She had left it in her usual half up, half down style, though in the heat, it was beginning to stick to her neck.

 

“Should I put it up?” It would be practical.

 

“Whatever you want. I just saw the other females with their hair up and thought the style might suit you.”

 

The thing about Azriel and compliments was that he rarely intentionally gave them. Often, they were simply observations of his. _You look healthy in pink,_ or _You remind me of a bee. Small, and yet important._ Such odd, strange words, yet not lacking in sincerity. He would never be accused of being cliché. Azriel said what he saw if he wished and did make sweets out of lies.

 

With a blush she did not understand on her cheeks, for it was only one of Azriel’s observations and Graysen had complimented her plenty once, Elain set about rearranging her hair. In a few deft movements, it was a loose, heavy bun on her head. Nesta looked back at her from the mirror, mature and defined, though with an uncharacteristic, girlish pink to her cheeks. Elain let loose her fringe, hoping to regain some of her identity as se framed it around her face.

 

She turned and found Azriel looking away to the door, apparently eager to see the city. She slipped her arm easily into his and peered up into the face that had now angled towards her, awaiting her words.

 

“Are you sure?” She had to ask, one last time.

 

Azriel smiled faintly, the same way he had done when offering to show her the garden at the townhouse for the first time, and patted her hand with his scarred one. The texture sent a lightning bolt of thrill through her. Then they left, Elain’s clothes and their packs left in her room.

 

…

 

Helion had a palanquin prepared for Elain by the time they arrived, though she refused to have such a fuss made over her and he had it sent away. She also wanted to walk down to the city, stating she needed some exercise.

 

He gave a low whistle at her attire, impressed by her simple, earthly beauty, even by High Fae standards. The style of his court suited her. Her mature hair style emphasised the feminine curve of her neck he so loved on a female. The other one, her body guard he presumed, clung to her side like a stain, glaring at the High Lord in spirit even though his eyes were lowered. Helion forgave his presence if only as he served as a moody decoration.

 

“Did you stub your toe or something?” Helion asked, offering his arm to Elain, who peeled off Azriel’s hot leathers to take it. The Shadowsinger merely gave a blank expression. “One day, Spymaster, the wind will change and your face will be stuck like that.”

 

“Oh, leave him be,” defended Elain, playfully smacking his hand in such a way that had some of his well-trained guards raising their brows in amusement. They would not be accompanying them, he had decided. Too much company was stifling.

 

“Cat got his tongue as well?”

 

The Shadowsinger did not even frown. Helion did not win this round of trying to coax an expression onto Azriel’s face and instead devoted his attention to the smile worth seeing, even though it could be equally as hard to bring out.

 

“Shall we?” He said to Elain, the young female he had inexplicably taken a liking to.

 

She nodded and they strolled through the gates, following the winding path down to the city below, his magic drawn to it like a magnet. Like Rhysand’s fabled Velaris, Helion had also kept his city protected by magic during Amarantha’s tyranny, thus it had not suffered any losses due to that vindictive bitch. Wealth still poured into his famous city, riches of all kinds: the precious minerals that provided the basis of his economy, the valuable imports from the continent and, chief among all his treasures, knowledge.

 

Books, scrolls, hieroglyphs, anything that could teach him more about the world. All of which he collected in his public library. Public, and free, for no one should be denied the knowledge of the lands, the seas or the skies. The famous Day Court library sat in the centre of his capital like the chief jewel in the crown of a great High Lord. The glass dome topping the building made it visible a mile off from their vantage point on the hill. He could not wait to share it with Elain.

 

“It’s stunning,” breathlessly commented Elain. Then she giggled. “I bet you get a lot of magpies.”

 

Helion’s brows furrowed. “How come?”

 

“Because it’s so shiny,” simply replied Elain.

 

When they finally arrived at the city threshold, wards buzzing around them and Helion beaming with pride, he told his guest, “I thought we might tour the markets first, then the metal work district and finally the library before coming back for dinner. How does that sound”-

 

But she had already peeled from his arm to the nearest collected crowd, blue dress fluttering around her like a butterflies wings as she yelled over her shoulder brightly, “Azriel! Come look! Performers!”

 

Helion blinked dumbly as the Shadowsinger came, arms still barred forbiddingly across his chest but curiosity raising his brows a bit. The crowd shifted around and away from him, which would have suited his wing span. It was those very wings that kept all the attention off Helion. Murmurs went up all around, rising like the swell of a current when raining.

 

“Is that an Illyrian?” One would go, to which another might sneer, “Brute.”

 

Someone else might gossip, “A High Fae and a lesser Faerie? Oh, I dread to think.”

 

Helion did not say anything. Merely sent a few tendrils of his magic out so that those who slandered his guests, saviours of Prythian no less, were about to find they needed the toilet very, very soon. Triumphant, he grinned a sly, knowing smile to himself.

 

With her High Fae hearing and his shadows, they most of known, yet they did not seem to care.

 

The High Lord kept a few paces back, observing as the pair stole glances at each other, gaging the other’s reactions to the fire breathing acrobatics of the performing faeries. His keen eyes did not miss the softer looks they gave the other when they thought they weren’t looking, nor did they miss the smile that Elain thawed onto Azriel’s face with her enthusiasm.

 

Pleasant surprise lifted his groomed brows. _Oh, like that, is it?_

He had suspected, briefly, when the Shadowsinger had suddenly threatened him upon his seemingly lewd proposal to Elain. But he had put that down to his general defensiveness of those he loved.

 

The thought of that smug Autumn Court heir getting launched at by the Shadowsinger still made a golden warmth of humour swell in Helion’s chest. Honestly, the main reason he went to the meeting was for the drama and theatrics, on which the Night Court delivered spectacularly, as per usual

 

He watched as she burst out laughing in amusement, nudging his arm to encourage Azriel to clap, which he did. People were staring by now, more at them than the acrobatics, especially the wings and the scarred hands, yet neither of the pair looked, apparently lost in their own box.

Helion felt no jealousy. His liking for Elain had never been like that and the Shadowsinger had never returned his flirtations, sadly. It made sense the quiet ones of Rhysand’s motely band would be drawn to one another, though he was still trying to discern whether or not they had realised how strong their affections for the other were, if they would bloom into something more.

 

There was a kernel of hope he began to nurse for them, then a fraction of pity for the youngest Autumn Court son- Lucien, he believed he was called.

 

It was a powerful thing, the mating bond, an eternal tug he had never found nor, in all his years of research, ever come to understand. Thoughts came then of a red headed lady, fierce and fiery before the decay of autumn, the season of dying things, oppressed her. The one he should have fought for.

 

“Helion!” Beamed Elain, suddenly before him, cheeks flushed with summer sun and rounded with joy. “You’re performers are amazing! Aren’t they, Azriel?”

 

The Spymaster nodded in confirmation, amusement lingering in his eyes for longer than three blinks.

 

The grin that came to Helion’s face was easy, lighting up his metallic eyes in an instant. “You should see the Summer Solstice celebrations.”

 

He launched into an explanation as he led her, arm in arm, through his well-known streets, only pausing to wish well to those who stopped to speak to their High Lord. “Every year, we have garlands and ribbons of magic threading everywhere. There’s music and a week of feasting and the most spectacular enchanted fireworks.”

 

“Enchanted fireworks?” Piped up Elain. If the Shadowsinger was curious, he did not show it.

 

“You’ll see,” Helion said knowingly, giving her arm a squeeze of anticipation.

 

“I’m not sure if we’ll be here that long,” confessed Elain sombrely, truly regretful she might miss such an amazing event.

 

“How long did that old bat give you for your garden?” He gave a quick look to Azriel, hoping to find him scowling, only to find a smirk curling at his lips upon hearing his High Lord referred to as such.

 

Elain was more defensive. “ _Rhysand_ gave us a year.”

 

“Just to collect flowers?” And to depose his Spymaster to help? No, Helion would not believe it. That crafty bat was up to something.

 

Elain nodded and emitted a sound somewhere between a scoff and a giggle. “Yes, I suppose. It sounds somewhat silly, doesn’t it?”

 

Before he could say anything, defend her choice, Azriel used that lovely, forest pool voice of his: level and deep. “I don’t think it’s silly. I think it’s important. Feyre has her art classes, Rhys has his charities, Cass and your sister train the Illyrian females.” Helion did not think he had ever heard the male speak so much. “Everyone’s trying to make the world a little bit better and I am honoured to be a part of your plans to do so.”

 

“As am I,” added Helion, knowing he could not add anything of note to the Shadowsinger’s heartfelt words. They say Truth is the Morrigan’s gift, but it appeared to have blessed Azriel as well, Helion thought.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Elain’s energy bloomed from then, though it was nearly an hour and a half before they would finally reach his infamous library, thanks to people constantly stopping to greet their High Lord and Elain’s curiosity. Every new smell, every glittering window display, and she was hooked in, reeled towards all the wonders like the most gullible and charming fish.

 

“Helion! What are these jewels called and why do they glow like hot coals?” She would exclaim or, “Mother’s tits! Azriel, you have to taste this!”

 

At the language, Helion raised his brows, to which Azriel dryly replied, “Cassian.”

 

It was explanation enough.

 

Every corner they turned, Elain found something new to explore and then share with her travelling companions, evening insisting on feeding the Shadowsinger all sorts of treats, which he tried obediently. He only refused one, a honeyed mead which he said was too early in the day for trying.

 

She did not balk from any faerie, her human reservations seemingly evaporated, and listened to any that would explain the way their world worked to her. In her eyes as she listened, he saw another fraction of Elain that made her admire her even more: she was a keen learner.

 

Helion leaned over to Azriel, whose eyes were fixed on Elain as she talked animatedly to one green faerie jeweller with three eyes and four arms. “Her temperaments improved a lot, hasn’t it?”

 

He still remembered her so… broken. Even when he saw her in that tent, the first time they had spoken, she was dim, a sputtering candle, only asking about her sister, the mortal she had saved and the Shadowsinger that had saved them. Her weight had been nothing, her cheeks hollow and ribs so prominent he could count them threw her thin shift. Yet here she was, laughing at a joke the faerie made, figure full and eyes crinkled in joy.

 

Azriel merely nodded, not taking her eyes off her still.

 

“Do you think she’s moved on from her mortal life yet?”

 

Azriel answered this time. “It’s not my place to tell even if I did know.”

 

Helion wanted to push the subject, but dropped it for Elain’s sake. “What about you then, hm? Why are you here?”

 

“She asked me.”

 

The tightness of his tone, usually so blasé and uncaring, piqued Helion’s curiosity. “She must trust you a lot then.”

 

The Shadowsinger shrugged his massive shoulders. “She asked others before me. They were all busy.”

 

“She still wanted you to come.”

 

Azriel slid his eyes of Elain for a moment to pin them on Helion as he bit out, “What of it?”

 

Anyone but a High Lord would have flattened beneath that gaze, the cutting look of the notorious Spymaster of the Night Court. Of all of Rhysand’s Illyrian trio, he was the one to keep an eye on, the knife glinting in a dark alley.

 

Rhysand had a temper- quick and explosive, though he was a master a keeping it under check. He only ever let it off the leash completely in battle, shedding his pretty skin for that awful beast within all the High Lords. Cassian, his general, likewise, could be like a wildfire. Blazing through whatever lay in his path, but extinguishing quickly. In spite of his impressive physique, Cassian was a lover, not a fighter.

 

Azriel was different. Cold. Colder than the Illyrian mountains he had heard about.

 

When his anger came, it was slow and steady as winter, nursed by the frost and night sewn into his soul. He was like an iced over lake. Beautiful to look at, but deadly to tempt. He looked just that way when he saw him throttle Eris at that meeting, especially when he leaned down to whisper something deliciously cruel into the whelp’s ear.

 

“Oh, nothing.” Helion waved the conversation away as soon as he saw Elain coming towards them, adding another paper bag of souvenirs to send home for her family into the satchel she had to purchase to carry them all.

 

“I found a bejewelled music box for Amren. Look,” she presented the small mechanical wonder to her escorts before tucking it safely away. Despite himself, despite witnessing her being Made into pure High Fae, the name still made Helion want to wince. “I hope she will like it.”

 

“It’s shiny and bejewelled, Elain,” quipped Azriel, eyes soft as he looked at Elain. “She will love it.”

 

“You’re probably right- oh!” Gasped Elain, looking down to where a rare faerie child was tugging at her dress. Instead of snarling and kicking the girl away as many other High Fae would have done, Elain merely crouched down on the cobbled street to her height, smiling. “Hello,” greeted Elain brightly.

 

The child, a woodland faerie with leaf textured skin and ochre eyes, looked between Elain’s bright face and the looming males over her shoulders. Helion smiled encouragingly down while Azriel kept his eyes on Elain.

 

“Are you… Are you Elain Archeron?” Shyly asked the girl, looking as though she wanted to hide behind her mass of curly, bark coloured hair. She must have overheard Azriel saying her name. “One of the saviours of Prythian?”

 

It was like Elain’s body stammered before moving, her nod delayed. “I am. What’s your name?”

 

It took the shocked little girl a moment to reply. “Myrtle.”

 

“Oh!” Helion watched Elain’s shoulder’s raise in pleasant surprise. “That’s a very pretty plant, you know”-

 

“Is it true you killed the king of Hybern?”

 

The streets seemed to still around them, Elain and that little girl. The hubbub grew muffled and the rare summer clouds covered the sun, casting a sudden chill upon them. Azriel stepped closer to her, wings shifting uncomfortably. Helion thought about chastising the nosey child. Beneath that thick cloud, Elain gave her answer.

 

“Yes. In part.”

 

“Really?” Myrtle’s ochre eyes lit up like light shine through marbles. Helion knew he could not shout at a child who only meant to meet her hero. “I want to be just as brave as you and your sisters one day!”

 

The cloud passed over them and Elain stood up, smiling down at the girl still, her lips softened by her inbuilt tenderness. “I hope you become better than me, Myrtle.”

 

Elain left her with that, walking slowly ahead and not looking back Helion was wrong. The cloud had not passed at all.

 

Azriel was at her side in a few easy steps, gliding on a shadow-kissed wind. Helion did not think she realised that she had leaned towards him and he towards her, that soft attraction of quiet people. He had not realised himself he had not moved to follow them to the city centre when Mrytle, who could not have been much older than eight or nine, dared to tug on his fine robes.

 

“Yes, little one?”

 

“Is she alright?” There was genuine concern wobbling in the girl’s eyes. “I didn’t upset her, did I?”

 

Helion reached down to ruffle her tangled hair. He could not bear to see children cry. “No. No, not at all, little one. My friend is just…” He looked for the right words, gazing at the pair wandering ahead in their own bubble for inspiration. They were closer now, arms grazing each other, his wing curving slightly in her direction. A smile, gentle and knowing, stretched Helion’s full lips as he met the eyes Myrtle. “Healing.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back, back again. First of all, a big, massive, sincere thank you to everyone who's left a kudos or a comment. Honestly, the comments really keep me going. You all seem like very wonderful people and I'm glad I can produce something people will enjoy. Also, a few of you have been enjoying my notes, so I won't disappoint and I will leave you with this thought:  
> The Inner Circle doing karaoke.  
> Amren at it with 'Material Girl'. Rhysand in full Kiss regalia with Star-Child make up singing 'I Was Made for Loving You Baby' at Feyre, who would get up and start singing Carly Simon's 'You're So Vain'. Cassian at Nesta: 'Killer Queen'. Mor with that Katy Perry song (we all know which one). Azriel with good old Simon and Garfunkel: 'Hello Darkness, My Old Friend'. Add more in the comments, such as Helion and Elain doing 'Barbie Girl'. Any who, a new chapter. Do enjoy.

Despite not being an avid reader, even Azriel was impressed by the expansive library.

A huge skylight illuminated the entire structure, underneath which hovered moving models of the planets and stars, made from every precious mineral known to faerie kind. Colour and culture were tastefully splashed everywhere. Masses of books were organised on shelves of every material. Each binding was a different shade or texture, creating enough vibrancy to rival Velaris’ Rainbow. The place was part library, part art gallery, part museum and school.

Scholars buried in rare scrolls dodged around precious looking artefacts from abroad and children coming to various counters to check out thin, illustrated books. No two faeries were the same and Azriel appreciated the fact that lesser faeries did not seem to be looked down upon here, a common trait of the solar courts.

Azriel made a mental note to tell Feyre and Rhys about this place, one for the art, the other his reading. Perhaps Amren as well, for the magpie did like her shiny things.

“And this is just the opening room,” proudly stated Helion, sweeping his arm to the circular area. Every wall was lined with a bookcase crammed with knowledge. The room must have been over thirty metres in diameter and just as tall, with long, marble staircases that stretched to the five upper rings of the library. “What do you think, Elain?”

Blinking abruptly, Elain took a quick look around and smiled in a way that was really just pinching her teeth together. “It’s lovely. Very bright!”

Azriel fought a wince at the falsity of her grin.

The mood had changed since their encounter in the street, dropping upon them in a heavy blanket of snow that muffled the impact of the sun. When he asked if she would like to speak about it, she played the fool, asking whatever he thought was the matter. Azriel did not push and instead offered only the comfort of his company. He regretted not shooing the little girl away now, even though he knew she was just a curious child.

It was the first time he had ever seen a direct cause of Elain’s melancholy. It was prone to taking her at odd times in varying degrees. In the earliest days, she would just weep at a random moment in a quiet place. Now she tended towards a silent suffering. But it came and went as clouds did. Now, the storm lingered thanks to the mention of Hybern. Azriel tucked the detail into his mind and began planning the best strategy to deal with it.

Helion had noticed too, if the thinning of his lips and softening of his eyes were anything to go off. Ever the gracious host not wanting to hurt his guest, he offered quietly, “Perhaps today is not the day for the library. Shall we winnow back for supper?”

“Oh, no.” Elain shook her head. This time, there was the barest sincerity stretching the corners of her mouth. “Please show me. You were so excited about it.”

Helion considered for a moment before nodding and leading her by the hand to the massive left doorway which opened up into another airy room.

Azriel listened carefully as Helion explained the architecture his ancestors had created, locking away any key knowledge should the High Lord one day become an enemy. He found the majority of him, despite Helion’s chirpy and abrasive nature, did not want that day to ever rear its ugly head.

There were over thirty million books collected and just as many scrolls, all of which were organised by subject relevance into the four Quatrains: the Science Quatrain, the Literature Quatrain (which they had first entered), the Artistry Quatrain, which also served as an art gallery and the History and Cultures Quatrain.

They had just stepped into the latter Quatrain where scribes were doubling pages with magic when Helion said, “I was rather hoping you might have something to contribute to the Illyrian culture section, Spymaster. It’s looking rather thin at the minute.”

“It will likely continue to do so,” Azriel replied, temper sharpened just enough on the right point so that he added, “You cannot make writers and poets out of warrior brutes with a backward culture.”

Rhysand had only just managed to make literacy and basic arithmetic compulsory until twelve in the last two hundred years, though many young Illyrians had their quills yanked out of their hands and replaced with steel or a sewing needle before then. Only the Lords and their sons learned willingly, needing the knowledge for battle plans and such.

Helion paused to peer over the shoulder of one scribe, offered on tip with a smile and patted the faerie on her shoulder in commendation. Then he turned to Azriel, looking rather confused. Elain did not, only offering a pitying glance. “You don’t sound overly keen on the people that were so key in us winning against Hybern.”

Elain’s features began to stiffen and her eyes dropped to his scars and flitted quickly up. He tucked them behind his back, brushing them against his wings, scar against scar, ignoring the heat that flared in them.

Azriel’s face did not yield an inch to the emotions clawing from beneath his skin. “You would not be keen either, Spell-Cleaver, if you saw the way they bred their sons for no other purpose war and conflict while leaving their daughters crippled and miserable.”

Helion opened his mouth, but Elain interjected, yanking the High Lord with all her immortal strength towards a random bookshelf. Azriel remained a few paces behind, calming himself while Elain wisely distracted Helion from the topic.

“Is this on the mortal lands?” She plucked a book and turned it over to read the title, eyes dimming as she did. “Oh, I must have misread it.” She put it back with a shrug and a smile, as if it did not matter much to her. Though she did say, “Do you have anything on the mortal lands though?”

“A few.” Elain seemed to grow brighter for a second, a candle brought back to life. “But they’re so outdated that I doubt they would be of much use.”

It took Elain a moment to respond. “Older than you?”

She was like scissors to a taut string. All the tenseness in the air went limp. Helion chuckled and even Azriel felt himself settle.

Then he felt impressed. Elain was a born diplomat.

“You wound me, you cruel, sweet, paradoxical thing.”

Helion toured them through the maze of art in the massive gallery next.

Statues of precious metal and golden veined black marble lay like an obstacle course before them. He recognised the sunstone that Thesan had used in his palace from the meeting there, so he was not surprised to find it was shaped into one of his Peregryn soldiers in flight. Azriel folded in his wings tight lest he knock over one of the enamelled pots from the Summer court, which had reflective mother-of-pearl patterns. Beautifully crafted porcelain lay in the Xian section. In the farthest corner, he saw a tapestry depicting the Spring Court.

Azriel let the sneer pass onto his face, not even wasting a thought on that particular High Lord. Part of him still wished he had held his temper during the Day Court meeting and not throttled Eris, if only so he could have took on Tamlin’s kitty-cat claws himself. He began looking for the black and silver of his Court, instead finding bright gold.

Portraits of Helion and his ancestors took up the highest, most decorated wall in this area. Each had dozens of objects of knowledge in their hands: a quill, a globe, a scroll.

Azriel wondered what it must have been like to grow up learning to read before knowing several ways to kill your opponent with a knife. It had been Rhys’ mother who had sat him and Cassian down, forcing them to learn their letters. She herself had only had a few hundred years of the skill, previously only being required to learn how to do laundry and rear a brood of strong warriors. But she had adored reading and wanted to instil it in all of her children. She succeeded with Rhys, but not Cassian, who preferred flight to knowledge. As a child, Azriel himself had enjoyed the odd novel, but as he grew older, the only ever reading he did now was paper work. He had been efficiently put off, though he never forgot his adoptive mothers words:

“Knowledge is power,” she had told them. “Learn as much as you can so no one can ever get the better of you and push you down.”

His heart warmed at the thought of her, the female as free and wild as the wind. She would be so proud of them all now. All of their Illyrian mothers would be. For fighting the backward Illyrian traditions. For making sure no other female was ever worked to death in a laundry or had her wings clipped.

His eyes fell on the Spring Court tapestry again and the need to shred it started to grow in his fingertips. Thinking Helion might actually murder him should he mar his collection, Azriel turned his back on the depiction of overly bright flowers.

While Elain was listening to Helion explain why the eyes on the ancestral portrait had paint that glowed, Azriel went to admire the only rudimentary painting that caught his eye.

At first, he had mistaken the winged, long haired figure for Cassian, but he knew the rough painting, depicted on animal hide, was much older than any of his brothers. The smoky combination of black charcoal and what he suspected to be rusty smears of blood depicted an Illyrian battle scene. Well, one Illyrian against an army of High Fae. A quick glance at the golden plaque beneath confirmed his suspicions.

It was Enalius- the war god and first Illyrian. Despite such simple tools, the war cry had been caught exceptionally on the Enalius’ face. He knew that exact look, heard the roar of a male with nothing left to lose.

He knew the ground beneath him was smoothest, hardest marble, but he felt it begin to stick like mud. And gore. The room’s scent began to change, sweet orange blossom and paper to the pungent tang of iron, blood and sword. The freshest of the scars on his wings tingled and stung. He knew it was blood roaring about his ears, but he could not help but detect the undertones of shouting the clash of metal on metal, the fizz of magic against magic.

A soft hand grazing his.

Azriel did not let his surprise show as Elain appeared beside him just as quietly as one of the wraith twins might. He had detected her of course, but she had learned well from Nuala and Cerridwen. Diplomat, spy, she was earning all sorts of titles today.

Helion’s chatter with another scholar was dim in the background as she whispered, “Who is it?”

Azriel gulped to wet his dry throat. “Enalius. The first Illyrian and their war god. Birthed by the very mountains themselves, destined to father our race and die in battle.”

Elain cocked her head, eyes lingering on the smearing of blood. “I think that’s sad.”

“He died nobly and he knew it was his fate from a young age. Prepared for it.”

Quietly, she watched the last stand of Enalius, eyes flitting from his torn wings to the army ready to obliterate him. “Then that’s even sadder.”

It was the Illyrian in him that was confused. “Why?”

Elain looked up to him now. “I don’t think any child should be raised for war.”

Azriel decided she would not have lasted a minute on the steppes where the only flowers they knew of where the ones you had to eat troubled times.

Illyrians lived and breathed conflict, the curse of Enalius. To die in battle was the greatest honour. To question it, the ultimate cowardice. No, Elain would not last very long amongst Illyrian’s at all.

Then again, he thought, remembering what Feyre had told them of Hybern’s deserved demise, perhaps she would surprise him.

“I would not raise my child in such a way.” The words slipped out before he could clamp his hand over his traitorous lips. That never usually happened. But she looked up at him inquisitively, drawing his thoughts from him like water from a well. “If I ever had one, of course. I would teach them to think of peace before anything else. I would be better… than my father.”

A surge of anger changed his scent as it always did, but he pressed the rage deep, deep down into the darkest pit of the soul where it remained like Bryaxis at the bottom of the library.

Elain nodded. “I think that would be easy for you. You’re a very calm man- male, sorry. A good and kind one too.”

Azriel willed the blood away from his cheeks, hiding them with shadows for good measure. “Thank you. I think you would make a kind mother as well.”

His wings stiffened.

 _Cauldron boil me,_ he thought, watching all his redness seep into Elain. _Excellent idea, you winged buffoon. Tell her she would be a good mother because that is not a strange compliment at all._

He was just considering sinking into his shadows when Helion appeared between them, an arm slung around each of their shoulders, pulling them closer. “Oh, I see you found my only Illyrian artefact- ooh! Why are you both blushing? What saucy things are you speaking of?”

Elain turned the same colour as a poppy. “Helion!”

The tour resumed and Azriel was, though he would never admit it, grateful for Helion’s interruption.

In the Science Quatrain, Helion led Elain immediately to the botany and herbology section on the highest floor. By the windows that overlooked the city, a few flowers were actually in bloom, which Elain eagerly went to analyse while Helion picked out a few general books for her to peruse tonight.

“Some are too delicate to permit to leave the library, so you might have to come back to study them if you need to.” He handed Elain the pile of tomes which made her arms drop a little, even with her immortal strength.

“I think these are enough for now.” She rearranged her bag of trinkets so they would the books would not crush anything, smiling to herself.

Azriel noted Helion’s congenial company and the sight of plants had cheered her up a little, but he kept an eye on her just in case. He knew all about temporary fixes.

They rounded back to the Literature Quatrain where Elain checked out her tomes, thanking the spindly fingered librarian with a smile and a bow of her head.

“Are you not borrowing anything, Spymaster?” Azriel knew exactly what he meant every time he used his official title: _I have not forgotten what you are._ “You are free to do so.”

“Azriel isn’t an eager reader,” answered Elain heaving up her bag, walking ahead of them so that she had to speak over her shoulder. “He always has too much paperwork so he hardly ever gets time to read for leisure. He much prefers a play.”

Azriel briefly recalled telling her this detail some months ago. A pleasant warmth of surprise spread from his chest at the fact she had remembered. Remembering he still had use of his feet, he quickly caught up to her and offered to carry her weighty bag of treasures, missing the smirk Helion gave them from behind.

 

…

 

After having checked out her books, Helion had winnowed the three of them back to his house, dropping them off at their respective rooms, subtly implying she was sweaty by encouraging her to pick out some evening wear while clicked his fingers and set her bath running.

She was grateful for the winnowing. She was ready for dropping her feet were that sore, despite keeping on her well fitted boots. Mid-morning had quickly bled into mid-afternoon causing the dinner arrangements to change to supper ones. Despite eating her fill of street delicacies, Elain’s stomach howled to be filled.

But there was another reason for her tiredness.

It took a lot of effort to put up a convincing mask of contentedness, to slap on a smile until her cheeks ached. Though it was made far easier by just the steady presence of Azriel and the joyful one of Helion. Most of her joy had been genuine then. They helped her fight against the memory of Hybern a bit, but not enough to chase his shadow away. It lingered in the very marrow of her bones which fatigue had turned leaden.

“Supper will be in an hour,” Helion said above the running water in the small bathroom adjoining her room. With that, he brushed by Azriel with a pointed smirk and breezed into the hallway, singing loudly to himself like a tone deaf canary.

The two shared a look and even Azriel smiled a bit. Once the un-tuned voice faded, he closed the door and set her heavy bag beside her bed, next to the small table which held a candelabra on it.

“Interesting day,” breathed Elain, peering into the bathroom to see the huge, decadent bath was far from full. “I rather liked the library.”

“I thought you might. It cheered you up a bit.”

She leapt with alacrity towards the treasury of gowns, trying not to think of the connotations of Azriel’s comment. “What do you think I should wear to supper?”

In three swift steps, Elain was already at the wardrobe, remembering how she used to fuss over things such as evening wear. It was an effort to be bothered now. She had grown so accustomed to comfort back at the Townhouse she had forgotten such things unless there was an important event. A swathe of red fabric appeared on the rack and she shoved it behind three other dresses without looking at it again.

“Elain.” Azriel began to look uncomfortable, but still came to the wardrobe to pause her hasty browsing by laying his hand across hers to still it. He turned her towards him, putting his hands on her bare shoulders in a motion that sent trickles of electricity through her. “You don’t have to pretend around me. I can tell when a melancholy mood takes you. Are you alright?”

Elain nodded, feeling her head ache with the movement. Of course he would not have let the Myrtle incident fly over his head. Azriel, remembering the connection of their bare skin, let his hands drop.

The colours of his hazel eyes deepened like muddy waters as he told her, pleaded, “Do not ever think for a moment you need to keep things to yourself. I am always ready to talk.”

The scoff that came out of her was muted and a little deflated. “That’s a little ironic, don’t you think?”

“How come?”

“We keep asking each other if we’re alright. Everyone keeps asking us if we’re alright,” observed Elain, choosing a lilac gown with a matching silver and amethyst belt and laying them out on the bed. She stared at them without seeing for a long moment. “Have you ever noticed that?”

“I suppose we do.”

She reached up and let her heavy hair loose, massaging her scalp and freeing the strands that had now formed waves. Then she ran her fingers over her sore eyes, rubbing the aching spots. “And we both always say that we are fine because we don’t want to mither others with our woe. What’s so terrible about that?”

Azriel did not look at her for a long moment. There was only the sound of pouring water between them. Finally, he said something. “Because bottling it up can lead to worse things, Elain.”

It made her heart seize to look at him. That happened to her sometimes, the feeling familiar and yet forgotten from her human life, summoned only by Azriel’s face and voice.

“Why does everyone think I’m bottling something up? It’s not like I saw my mate die like Feyre. Or had my wings shredded like you!” More harshness seeped into her voice than she realised, but the toxins just kept rolling off her tongue, needing to being removed from her body. “I wasn’t even in the thick of the battle for more than a minute before I was winnowed away.”

The arrows hit their mark, pinning his tongue before he dared another word. Suddenly, her guts were sinking with guilt.

Azriel looked like he was about to wince at the words. “So you don’t want to talk about it then?”

“There is nothing to talk about.”

Like a hawk assessing the capability of its youngling to fly, Azriel considered her. He gave one nod before making to leave the room. Anyone else would have hovered.

Elain’s shoulder’s sagged a bit in relief, but stiffened again when Azriel paused at the lip of the door, having to tuck his wings in as tight as possible to fit.

“If you ever decide to change your mind…”

Irritation filled her heart as his unusual persistence, but the warmth of gratefulness had her saying with a smile, “I promise.”

The soak she took was good and long. She took the time to un-knot the threads of her thoughts and organise them. Wafts of citrus scented steam surrounded her, filling her every pore as she tried to understand herself.

Myrtle thought she was a hero. A _hero._

People had written ballads about her, thanked her in their prayers. Far more fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, brothers, sisters, cousins and loved ones got to go home because her actions on that long ago grim day.

So why was it she could not re-tell the tale with as much vigour as Cassian would when talking of the commander he had charged at like a bull? Why not with the bite of Nesta who had half that death on her shoulders? Even Rhys joked about his death: “Excuse me, but I _died_ for this country. I think I should get the last slice of that cake, thank you very much”. Feyre’s argument would always be that she died first, so she should get the last slice.

They had died. Died and laughed about it.

Killing had always been abhorrent to Elain. Perhaps that’s one of the internal reasons she had never even thought to help Feyre hunting. To take a life, even for food… It just felt so wrong.

The one time it did not was when she saw Hybern threaten her sister. The image still haunted her. Proud, iron-spine Nesta curled over Cassian, his beautiful wings broken.

Only a few days later did it hit her- exactly what she had done.

Why did fairy tales always end with a kiss and a ride into the sunset? What came after when the brave hero slayed the beast yet just before happily ever after?

She did not blame her sisters or new family for not figuring out how it troubled her. She had not told them nor did she want to. It felt silly somehow. Besides, she wanted to learn how to fix herself first. That way she would never have to rely on others for it.

 _I can get through this on my own,_ she told herself as she washed her hair with a liquid that smelled like summer fruits. _I can do this,_ she said again, moisturising her skin with a nourishing coconut lotion. _I_ will _do this because Hybern has no power over me,_ Elain thought with a streak of pride running through her soul. She surveyed herself, fully dressed in the mirror.

One of the elegant short haired servants must have come in while she was lost in her thoughts, for laid out upon her vanity was an assortment of silver and amethyst jewellery. Elain had curled to bracelets around her wrists and added the matching tear drop earrings. The necklace she had not worn, not wanting to draw any more attention to her already eye catching bosom, but she had pinned one side of her hair back with one of the butterfly themed combs, leaving the rest down now the evening was cooling.

Content with her appearance, she went to stroll to dinner, gown fluttering behind her. When opened her door, Azriel was there with his fist raised for knocking. They both smiled and she took the arm he offered.

“I see you found the shoes.” He nodded down at her silver, flat slip-ons.

“I see you’re still dressed for a fight.” She tapped his siphon for emphasis, a sound like thick glass replying to her.

“You can never be too careful around a High Lord.”

Elain’s brown eyes rolled, though she was glad for the normality they easily fell into, that he had not been hurt by her words. “Helion is harmless.”

“He’s a fiend. He would soon as pinch your arse than kick it.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic. People might mistake you for Rhysand.”

Azriel stopped, stilling their walk. She looked up, expecting shock on his face, but his features were only bathed in a deep orange, eyes set aflame by the setting sun he was admiring. She followed his gaze out of the windows which made up one wall of the corridor. Elain looked for only a second before her eyes were back on Azriel again.

Rarely did she see just open expression on his face. Usually, it came only to his eyes or lips. Now, it was even in the relaxed muscles of his arm, the looseness of his wings, which the light illuminated in all their glory.

It was just another of his quirks she liked so much. If something caught his eye or snagged is curiosity, Azriel was not afraid to truly look at it. That was probably why he had figured out she was a seer. That simple power to look and understand.

From womb to heart, she felt a sudden pulse. A small hitch of breathlessness.

The feeling was one she had felt before, but not enough for her to name it, though it was visiting more and more for some reason. Before she could she could ponder it further, they resumed their walk and conversation.

“I am actually quite offended you would compare me to Rhysand in terms of theatrics. That male is the reason they invented the word ‘dramatic’.”

It took Elain a second to remember how to use her tongue. Then she giggled. “Yes, you’re right.”

Azriel must have sent his shadows to scout ahead, for he lead them with the ease of a seasoned sailor through the sea of halls that so easily confused Elain. Even if he were not as in tune with his internal compass as he was, they would have found their way thanks to the helpful servants who kept directing them towards the dining room.

 _Room_ was the wrong word to use, for what Elain and Azriel entered was in fact a hall. Between them and Helion lay a fifteen foot banquet laden with dishes.

“I hope you brought your appetites,” he said through the biggest grin.

Her stomach growled in response, her mouth grew wet.

Azriel tucked her chair beneath her before any of the servants could and took the seat next to her, leaving Helion at the head. Elain noticed Helion had provided a chair crafted for Azriel’s wingspan.

The High Lord himself got up to fill their platters with all the Day Court delicacies. They tasted so good Elain nearly abandoned her table manners in order to eat quicker with her hands. Never being an eager drinker, she refused Helion’s wine in preference to fruit juice, though she was a little relieved to see Azriel did the same, making her feel less childish. Helion kept the crystal wine decanter at his left side.

“So, what are your plans for tomorrow?” He asked, swirling the dark liquid around his jewelled goblet in such a hypnotising way she caught Azriel keep glancing at it.

“I think I’ll do some research first. I’ll make a list about which flowers I want and where to find them.”

Helion hummed in response, eyes flicking to Azriel’s, whose hazel hues in turn had to flick away from Helion’s left. “What about you, batty boy?”

“Helion,” reprimanded Elain.

But Azriel simply answered. “I’ll go with Elain.”

The most curious smile slipped onto Helion’s face then, bright, warm and just a tad smug, as if he knew something they did not. She turned to Azriel and said, “You don’t have to. You can go explore if you want. I don’t want you leashed to me all through this journey.”

“I don’t mind being leashed to you.”

Helion spluttered into his wine and muttered, “Kinky.”

“ _Helion!”_ Cried Elain.

Elain turned to colour of poppies again while Azriel had his shadows hide his burning cheeks. The next two hours followed a similar suit, even after the meal had been cleared away. Topics included that wonderful library, Cassian’s moronic exploits, stories about Rhysand’s youth from Helion that made even Azriel smirk in amusement, Cassian’s moronic exploits again, Mor and Leona, Amren and Varian. It was catching up really, but even those moments made Elain laugh, especially when the dry Shadowsinger decided to use his clever tongue.

By the time she had kissed Helion’s cheek goodnight and was being walked back to her rooms by Azriel, her ribs were aching with laughter and her limbs were growing limp with amusement.

She stretched her arms languorously above her head. “I think we’ve gotten off to a brilliant start, don’t you?”

Azriel nodded, soft smile still on his face. That little pulse went through her again. “Yes, given I’ve not attacked the High Lord of Day and started a war yet. This bodes well.”

Elain hummed in response, finally at her door and feeling deflated at the sight of it. She lingered at the threshold, hand on the doorknob. “What time will you be up tomorrow?”

“Early.” He answered and Elain remembered how serious these Illyrians were about their exercises.

“Wake me at eight then, please.”

Azriel nodded, warmth still in his eyes. “Alright. Goodnight, Elain.”

In that moment, he did not turn right away, but lingered for a second over her. One thought bloomed in her mind, fluttered in as unexpectedly as a butterfly blown of course by the wind.

_Kiss me._

Shock lanced through her and she twisted the door knob as she muttered without looking at him, “Goodnight, Azriel. Sleep tight!”

She pressed her ear to the door until she heard his calm footsteps walk away and then she slid down against the hard surface, sweat slick hand over her breast where her heart hammered beneath. She hoped he would not hear it.

_Where did that come from?!_

Elain began to gather her thoughts towards her, casting out her mental net to collect the minnows and trout and perch. Memories and moments flowed towards her.

She realised it was not the first time Elain had felt something like this with the Shadowsinger, though it was a secret she kept buried deep in her heart. Each time the little fireworks appeared she questioned where they came from and they could be triggered as easily as her melancholy at the most odd of moments.

The first spark she had felt was when he had offered her his arm gently and led her into the Townhouse garden on that first day. But they were just embers of friendship being stirred then. The second, when she found out she was a seer. The third time was her rescue. That fire was so large it compelled her to lean up on her tiptoes and plant a kiss on his bloodstained cheek.

Other strikes of emotion had followed, but she had never been able to quite explain them to herself- or rather had denied explaining them to herself to protect her own heart. The human heart that still loved Graysen.

She wrung her hands like wet dishcloths, curling her knees towards her pounding chest, starting to realise what the butterflies meant. She had not wanted to complicate her life with these feelings for a while, not with Lucien or Mor (at the time) or Graysen. Had not wanted to nurse a dead hope. But, maybe, it was time to stop stagnating and maybe these feeling were alright.

Mor had found love. Lucien was away. The thought of Graysen brought less frowns of sadness to her lips and more frowns of contempt. Maybe it was time.

Maybe- but she had no time to think further on it.

Suddenly, her sight was ripped from her, snapping into an inky darkness blacker than anything Rhysand could conjure. She gasped, as she always did, and let the vision begin, knowing she would be unable to get out her head for the next few minutes.

Except they never felt like minutes. They felt like a manufactured eternity- just like the depths of the Cauldron.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back, back again. You know those exams I was revising for? Well get me some bunny ears, a fluffy tail and start calling me a Duracel battery becuase guess who got triple A. It was me. I got the three A's. I can't take suspense. I don't know if you have Duracel battery's outside the UK or not so sorry if you don't get the reference. Bold of me to assume I have readers from abroad, I know. I'm assuming someone's guessed I'm British due to the spelling and English-isms. I try to keep my voice as objective as possible but I've got a reet-broad accent. Less Cersei Lannister and more Ned Stark. Less Lady Chatterly and more Lady Chatterly's Lover (great fanfic idea for you lot reet there). Those are both funny references because Sean Bean has played both of those men. Something that always bugs me as that people seem to think England has two accents: the Queen or Oliver Twist. When I finally write my proper book, the heroine is going to have the broadest, most working class accent on the planet. I would also like to say a massive, massive thank you to everyone who had ever liked or commented on this fic. You are angels sent by the Lord Almighty/ Allah/ the Universe/ the Cauldron/ Bhudda/ Vishnu (or whatever deity or not you support, you do you, buddy). Thank you for all the support seriously. May lots of good things come your way.

Azriel had always had a good ear. Even before the shadows came to fill the gaps in his soul and senses, he could remember hearing things others had to strain to as a child.

“You’re just like a dog,” Rhysand’s father had once said to him. Had it been his current High Lord who had said it, he would have taken it for a joke and quipped something clever and sharp back, such as, “And you are just like a bitch.”

Rhysand’s father had been a very different male, carved from the very mountain. The kind who would not have gone to comfort his children when he heard their hearts beat as fast as he heard Elain’s now.

Azriel was back at the door in a moment, adrenalin sweeping away his decorum as he thrust open the unnaturally heavy door, as though it had been barricaded. He only followed the hectic drumming, his own heart picking up speed.

“Elain!” His sight hit him before his other senses did, revealing what he thought to be an empty room. He prepared himself for a chase or a fight.

A quiet but rapid breathing drew his attention downwards and behind the door to where he had unknowingly shifted Elain.

Her eyes were as wide as saucers of milk with a single brown droplet in them, yet he knew they saw nothing. Or at least, nothing he could see. The hands clutching like harpy claws into her knees had lost their seasonal colour and turned the very shade of bone. The same hue as Hybern’s flag.

Azriel crouched before her, wings a little flared in panic behind him. He did not know what to do. Was he to snap her out of it or give her space? He thought about slapping some sense into her, but that only tended to work on Cassian and Rhysand. Besides, the thought of hitting the female before him was so abhorrent he would rather his hands get scorched to the bone again. Murmuring her name firmly, he took her slick and cold hands in his, but she snatched them away, showing a glimmer of consciousness. Feeling scalding rejection again, Azriel had to force the expression of hurt from his face.

Each word laced with adamantine authority, Elain murmured back, “Just let me weather it.”

She sounded like… an Archeron. Like the formidable warship her father had named after her.

Unable to deny her for lack of not knowing the right thing to do, Azriel did as he was told, keeping vigil as seriously as a crow does a battlefield, waiting for the calamity to settle so that he might swoop in. He only closed the door, knowing she would not want such a private moment to make its way about the palace. He stood and drummed his fingers along his thigh to keep from ruining his nails.

Her eyes flitted erratically about as though she were trapped in a glamour he could not see. Like her breathing, her heart rate grew steady, though she still had not taken one blink in all of three minutes.

Not once had he seen her like this. No one had, as far as he knew. He always thought the visions came quietly in dreams, drifting in like clouds. Few dared broach the abrasive subject with Elain, who quickly threw up all her Archeron defences if someone did. She would just quietly tell Feyre or Nesta what she had seen just in case it was of any importance. Elain took no chances since Hybern’s Ravens. But no one had actually _seen_ her as a vision possessed her.

How had no one realised how terrible it was?

The longer he watched, the more Azriel became less calm crow and more panicked hen. He was genuinely considering calling for Helion with his extensive knowledge and calming magic, tempting the fragile ice of their alliance to crack.

Helion did not know Elain was a seer. No one beyond his Inner Circle and Lucien knew to keep Elain safe. They were coveted sorcerers, rare as Suriel

Azriel was left debating between a risky reveal and watching Elain curl in on herself even more.

Finally, after about four minutes, she blinked the cloudy film from her eyes and said to Azriel with her usual softness, “In my pack, there’s a journal, quill and ink. Fetch them for me, please.”

Azriel complied quickly bringing them to Elain, who was still limp in a puddle of purple silk on the floor. He handed them to her and she placed her hands over his. She did not need to, but he understood why as she said, “Thank you.”

He sensed the apology behind the empathetic tone. Even when her eyes were elsewhere, her heart detected his sorrow and panic, his hurt at how she had pulled away from his grip and warped hands.

Balancing the notebook on her lap, she flicked forward through many detailed pages to a fresh one, wrote the date and began her latest entry, all with a stone steady hand. It was that detail, the way she did not tremble, that answered his question. She had learned to keep this hidden, to ‘weather’ the ordeal.

He waited until she put down her last full stop and folded her book closed. They were still sat together on the carpeted floor. Neither felt like getting up just yet.

Elain merely looked at him, as calm as one who had led the fullest of lives before death. Still as a statue of the Mother and serene as a well-kept koi pond. Looking at her was like watching snow fall. Everything seemed to grow quiet and muffled around them.

“Ask,” she said in a voice that made him feel centuries younger than her. The omniscience of her tone caused a shiver to run on his spine and along his wings.

He remembered for all her softness and all her sweetness, Elain was Cauldron blessed. A long, taut string tethered her to divinity and to a power he could not even begin to fathom.

It took a second for him to remember how to work his lips. “Why did you not tell me?”

He had to ask this. For all her otherworldliness, she still had the heart of a human.

“It’s not been a problem for me for a while now.” Azriel’s disbelief must have been evident on his face or she still had her prophetic sense about her, for she added, “It’s true. I figured out how to understand it better.”

Now she moved, shuffling closer towards him, her thigh grazing his as she revealed her notebook. “When I was little, I could never learn things properly unless I wrote them out. I thought if I wrote down the details of my visions they would be easier to understand, like dreams. It’s worked, in a way. I don’t want to forget when I tell Feyre in case it’s important.”

Azriel was still a little confused himself. “Aren’t you afraid?”

Elain did the strangest thing. She smiled. A real smile. And she shook her head. “Not anymore. It’s just… shock now. Like bumping into someone you know well but don’t get to see often. I calm down after a moment but I’m even getting better at that.”

“Did Amren help you?” He felt like an ignorant child asking his mother for all the answers in the world.

“No.” Elain shook her head again. Still, the warmth of her expression did not drop from her face. In fact, it seemed to grow. “I did it by myself. I have a sort of… surety of myself, I suppose. I know how to help myself out with somethings. I knew I learned by writing,” here she tapped the book in Azriel’s hands, “so I wrote.”

Azriel, for the briefest moment, put a mirror to Elain’s visions and his drinking. Then, with a lightning flash of anger, he smashed the mirror and drew a big, thick, red line between the two.

“I think that’s why it can be hard for Nesta sometimes. She’s still learning who she is beyond anger and coldness. She has to fight through all that to get to her sentiment. Which she has a lot of, believe me- even though she acts like a honey badger during her time of the month sometimes.”

She laughed at her own joke and Azriel found his lips caught between a gawk and a smile, though not for the same reason.

He was pleased and sad for her. Sad, for he had not been there for her as he should have. Pleased because she was stronger than she knew. Stronger than him in a few regards. He did not ask if she was alright because her face said it all.

Instead, he found himself saying, “What was it about this time?”

“A few things.” Picking up the journal, an ornately engraved thing, she flipped to the most recent page and skimmed over it. “A baby with stars for his eyes. A sky that rained fire in a room full of mirrors. And fawn fleeing a candlelit cave and weeping over a wilted red rose, which blooms again.”

Azriel raised his brows. “Are they always so cryptic?”

He looked over the puzzles again, forehead furrowed in concentration. He was usually better at placing clues together with his occupation and all.

“Not if you know which signs to look for,” she told him, pointing to the word ‘stars’, written in neat cursive. The smile on her face was brighter than what the word described and as she turned it on him his heart decided to do a little acrobatic show in his chest. “Do you think it’s too early to send Rhysand and Feyre a congratulatory letter?”

It did not take him long to find his own lips stretched from ear to ear. “I’m going to be an uncle?”

Laughing, for she was to be an aunt, Elain nodded in eager response.

They argued about whether or not to be smug prophets or let the happy couple find out for themselves. In the end, they prepared a happy letter, written by Elain but signed by both of them, wishing them all the luck on bringing the new addition into their family. The letter held the barest trace of smugness before Azriel winnowed it away on a crisp, dark wind. Then they returned to the journal.

By then, the pair had gotten up to light some candles and relocate to the plush bed. Elain sank into it belly first while Azriel sat on the edge, peering down at her as she pointed to the next word. Elain had also changed into a thin, cotton night gown which covered her modestly. Helion had been very observant about his friend’s tastes, though Azriel still noticed the comeliness of her figure thanks to the sheerness of the clothing.

A little heat forked through him and he quickly found himself looking at her skilled hands, the index finger of her right one pointing to the next word.

“Fire usually indicates Vassa or the Autumn Court, in my experience.”

“Destructive, you mean.” His eyes fell to his own melted-wax hands. He did not hate them so much as what they symbolised. His half-brothers, his own blood had done this to him- for fun. Yes, he had tortured. Yes, he had been cruel. But never for sheer, sadistic joy. If he ever found pleasure in the less savoury aspects of his occupation, such as with the Attor, it came from his sense of justice. His siblings had just been evil.

His hands did not hurt anymore, but perhaps he could not bear those fiery Autumn Court pricks for a reason other than their arrogance and brutality.

“Not necessarily,” Elain told him. She then directed him to a sort of symbolic glossary she had written at the back with various meanings written next to key words. “Fire can also mean celebration, such as a bonfire. For the mirrors, I have no idea.”

“Glamour, deception, vanity…” A certain fox-faced heir appeared into his mind. The Autumn Court seemed to have blown unwelcome into his mind on a bitterly cold wind just like those leaves that reeked of decay. He, who walked on near equal footing with death, could not bare the reek of that unnaturally, ever dying land. “Smoke and mirrors, as they say.”

Elain added all these to her glossary, along with her own. “Or truth. Ouroboros is a mirror that reveals your truest self.”

Azriel shrugged, though he made a mental note to treble his alertness when entering that burrow of a Court. The mortal realm to. He knew Lucien was there currently and had gathered enough intel to know that Vassa’s kingdom was frequented by that pathetic worm, Graysen. Lucien he was less worried about and even had earned a kernel of Azriel’s respect for not making a scene when Elain denied the bond. Graysen, by all accounts he had heard, might need his tongue nailing to his bottom jaw. If a single one of them dared to reverse all of Elain’s hard earned progress, he might demonstrate what he had once promised Eris. A wicked smile curled his lips up at the idea. He hid these vicious thoughts from Elain though, not wanting to mar her good mood.

Instead, he told her, “You ought to be very proud of yourself. For having done so well.”

The prettiest thing on a female, on anyone actually, whether big, small, black, white or all the colours in between, Azriel thought was this: happiness. Joy was the best thing to wear for it suited everyone.

Though he had to admit to himself, it looked stunningly good on Elain when she beamed up at him. “Thank you.”

At the thought, his heart did another bout of gymnastics.

“What about the rejuvenated flower? It sounds like a good sign.”

Elain shrugged. “Perhaps it’s the Mother’s way of blessing my journey.”

Filled with an unfamiliar tenderness as he looked down at her hopeful, happiness lit face, Azriel told her, “She would be a foolish deity not to.”

“Isn’t that sacrilege?”

Azriel shook his head, ebony hair swaying a little as he did. “Not for me. Not for many Illyrians actually.”

“Oh?”

She sounded interested, so he indulged her, going onto explain that, “The Mother is a High Fae deity, but many of the other faerie folk keep older gods from a time even before High Lords.”

“But Cassian says ‘Mother’s Tits!’ all the time.”

“Cassian swears for the sake of swearing.”

“True. Who were the Illyrian gods?”

Azriel rolled his eyes up to look through his mental records. “There was Enalius, who you saw today. He became deified after his death. His mother, Thetis, who all Illyrian females were meant to model themselves on.” Elain interrupted and told him he was scowling. “You would scowl to if you heard how the Illyrians completely disregard the fact it was Thetis who trained Enalius, knowing he was to fight many wars before the Nameless One, who is essentially Death, claimed him. They just demote her to this… weeping mother figure who only ever laments. She was a wind goddess, you know. But her son was born unable to fly, so she had to complete three tasks to earn him his wings.”

She leaned towards him, looking as though she would drink up his words like plant in need of rain. He was not used to speaking and being listened to for such long amounts of time, but with Elain, as with Feyre and the story of Nephelle, he did not mind as much.

So he retold the tale of valiant Thetis who, in order to earn a pair of wings from the bats of the Myrmidon mountains, set out to complete three impossible task.

There was a ticklish pressure on his wing and he nearly jumped out of his flesh. His tongue tripped over his words.

Ignorant of his growing discomfort, Elain continued poking Azriel’s wing with a smile until he swatted it away. “That doesn’t make sense. Bats have rather small wings. That reminds me.”

In all seriousness, she sat up and looked him in the eye, even as he was still trying to recovery from the sensual assault. He forgave her only for her not knowing, but his tongue turned to lead when she asked, “Why do Rhysand and Cassian get so miffed when the girls say that you have the biggest wingspan?”

Azriel turned the colour of a pomegranate. After a second of delay, he managed to shrug his shoulders and, with pride and horror at war in his gut, continued the story. “In ancient times, the land was covered with forests, the animals were much, much bigger then.”

“Ah,” Elain said, enlightened about at least one thing, thank the Mother.

He went on unravelling the tale bit by bit from the coils of memory. How Thetis captured a Suriel and carved out its eye, for the bats found it to be a delicacy. The way she slayed the seven headed serpent that hid at the base of another mountain and drained its blood for dye. He particularly enjoyed how she tricked the arrogant Monkey King in Xian into giving her his tail in return for a crown, for the Monkey King himself was leashed to a young monk, who told the arrogant fool it served him right. Thetis, feeling rather humoured, gave him his tail back and settled for one of his fingers instead, for she only needed a body part and that prideful creature was awfully fond of his tail. These objects she earned and gained a pair of wings in return.

Elain put away her little book of prophecies when he had finished, tipping it to the floor before she flattened her cheek against her palm, turning to him. “This is like a bed time story, eh?”

Azriel smiled, but then realised something quite sad as he tipped his head back to survey the winking stars through the skylight above. “I’ve never been read a bedtime story.”

“What?” Her voice was high with surprise but all he could do was shrug.

“By the time Rhysand’s mother practically adopted me, I was too old for them.” Cassian would never sit still through one, the fidget and Rhysand considered himself to mature. Azriel had felt too shy to ask. “The only stories I learned of where the ones I read myself. Except the stories of our gods- they get told by our commanders you see, to raise morale.”

Her eyes did not meet his when she replied. For the second time that night, she was seeing something he could not. The intimate look in her eye made him wonder if she wanted to be left alone now. After all, it was rather late.

“My father always used to tell me stories when I was a little girl. He brought books and tales from wherever he went trading.”

In a way, Azriel was grateful his mother never had a chance to tell him stories now. After all, she was no trader. All she had to speak of was woe and drudgery. Still, that did not stop her smiling at him in their snatched moments together.

“I remember,” she ran her tongue over her full lips. They were trembling, even as she tried to smile. The image reminded him of his mother so strikingly he felt a hole crack open his chest, letting all of Elain’s sadness pour in. “He would gather my sisters and I in the living room, sit Feyre on one knee, me… me on the other while Nesta would sit on the settee with my mother and he would speak of all he had seen. And now…”

Now her voice was uneven, rolling like a boulder down a rugged mountain. Azriel did not think she knew she was doing it, but the fingertips of her left hand grazed the pointed tip of her ear.

“I will have an eternity without ever hearing him again.”

Ah. Immortality.

Having grown up knowing he would fall into that long, long life, he had never really been saddened by the fact he would never come naturally to an easy death. Only battle would take him. Elain, he knew, had always believed in something better, the chance to be reunited with her mother and beloved father.

He did not know the words to say while she wept for something he could not fix.

“I’m sorry,” she apologised through a forced, watery smile. She sat up on her knees and tried smacking her tears away, but only smeared their saltiness across her face. “My emotions have gone all over the place tonight. It must be my time of month- or year rather.” Her laugh was brittle. “I think maybe it’s because I’m from home and I miss everyone and”-

Wordlessly, Azriel pulled her in to his chest, her head against his shoulder and his chin on top of her head. He stroked soothing circles around her back and murmured softly into her hair, which smelled of fruity shampoo.

“I’m sorry,” she apologised again, but he only hushed her.

“Stop apologising. Let it out. Just let it out,” offered Azriel, content to be a pair of ears or a pillow.

She was like him in the way that she spoke about her feelings when she wanted too. But at last, she shifted her warm head a little and cleared her throat. To his surprise, she shook her head.

“No. If you treat me like I ought to be sad, I’ll become sad and I don’t want to ruin such a good day. Father would want me to be happy and look at my immortality as an opportunity, not a curse.” A smile curved up on her face, as wobbly as water, though determined. Mentally, Azriel was agreeing that her emotions were scattered about the place tonight. Though she had picked up optimism like a ruby from the dust, her palms were still a little dirty with potent grief. “And, for that matter, I want to be happy. So I’ll cry when I need to and smile when I feel like it. Alright?”

Azriel remembered a long time ago, when he was still a little, skinny boy, he would have thought that this show of heart would be an acute sign of weakness. If Rhysand guarded his mind with black adamant, as Feyre described, Azriel shrouded his heart in a catacomb of darkness. Yet here was Elain practically cupping her own heart in her hands in presentation to him. She seemed proud, glad that it was still fundamentally human. It had taken him decades- especially decades of loving Mor –to realise there was more strength in revealing your feelings than hiding them.

Looking down into her smiling face, he found he envied the brightness still there and sent a rare prayer to whatever gods still kept an ear to the earth that the centuries would not steal Elain’s light.

 

…

 

Breakfast was a loud affair, Elain thought, though this was mostly on Helion’s part. In the beginning, she tried to keep up with his witty quips and amusing conversation, but fatigue beckoned her mouth closed, save for eating toast and bacon, and her ears open. He would be busy today, she learned, but she and Azriel were welcome to use his personal library to plot their destinations and to figure out all there needed plants. He said this with a wink, as though they were sharing a delicious secret.

“Perhaps you ought to plot ahead. I would not want to spend any more time in Tamlin’s nest or Beron’s catacombs than necessary.”

Immediately, she was distracted from the win and Elain hid the jolt of fear that passed through her when she heard those names.

It was Tamlin’s beast form she always remembered, not the handsome features Feyre had fallen for like a rock into a raveen. Sometimes he was shredding their cottage door into splinters with his claws like scythes. Other times, he was helping to rescue her from Hybern’s camp. Never in her mind did he take a shape like a man. Regardless of whatever form he was in, Elain did not want her thoughts to linger on however she felt about Tamlin and she did not want to think of Beron- or his sons –at all.

“Yes, that’s a good idea.”

An hour later, after finding a large map of Prythian and several illustrated volumes on the island’s plant life, Azriel picked up the very thread of thought she had wanted to drop and gave a tug.

They had not talked of what occurred last night. After she had made her half-declaration to be strong, Azriel had patted her on the head like a little child and told her good night, leaving her to fall into a dreamless sleep, near weightless.

In the groggy morning, she had not believed she had cried on him, likely marring his leathers with snot to. Embarrassment had her burying her face into her fluffy pillow until Azriel’s knock sounded like a death knell. She dressed in some airy, white cotton with sleeves this time. Her hair she pulled into a pony tail as she could not be bothered to do more to it. Azriel was in snot free leathers, as usual.

Walking down to breakfast, arm in arm again, she began thinking he might say something about it, but he never did. Just as Elain was thinking of broaching the subject herself, they arrived in the banquet hall where Helion was waiting to chew their ears off more than his breakfast. All through that meal, she had wanted to thank him. When he opened his mouth just as she found some ink, she thought that was what they were going to discuss.

“Are you sure you want to go to the Autumn and Spring Court?” He was looming over the map like a dark god looking at his creation, perhaps ready to smite part of it. His form cast a dark shadow over it, though fractions were lighter where light from the huge, round window in the library shone through his wings.

She did not nod. She shrugged. “They provided aid.” Eventually.

“Yes,” bitterly replied Azriel with an acidic tongue, “right at the arse end of the war.”

“It might be seen as a political jab if I leave them out. Besides, I’ve already accepted their invitations now.”

Elain did not tell Azriel that Tamlin had not even replied. She decided to give him a few more days grace. If not, then she would get her Spring flowers from elsewhere, as much as the thought twisted like a worm in her gut.

“Why do you not buy the flower seeds? The Palaces of Velaris are well stocked from all over the country.”

“Azriel,” she said in a teasing tone, “I thought you liked a challenge.”

He shrugged from his chair, pulling a volume towards him. Elain had told him to look for flowers he liked, for he deserved to be as big a part of this as she did, with all his help. “I was just curious. I’ll shy away from no challenge, as long as it’s not foolish.”

“Or proposed by Cassian.” Her grin was wry and she retrieved a volume herself.

He merely tipped his head, feathery hair shifting as he surveyed a Night Court bloom. “Semantics.”

Smirking, Elain turned to the contents page of _Flora and Fauna of Prythian, Volume 6_. Each of the seven volumes focused on a different Court conveniently and she thanked Helion for being so well stocked. “I want to do it the proper way. I want to earn it. Buying the ones we could get ourselves is cheating.”

“The human way, you mean.”

There eyes met across the table and Elain’s narrow slightly, thinking the words a challenge. Azriel almost never said anything without thinking about it.

“I meant it as a compliment. After all, did you not say that doing things witout magic is more satisfying?”

Softening like warm dough, Elain nodded and merely reminded him to look for where they could find moon flowers for Rhysand. “By the way,” she added, not wanting to forget and needing to sweep away her unnecessary harshness, “thank you, for last night.”

Azriel merely nodded back, smiling softly.

Elain’s heart did another irrational flip of glee. She noticed they were becoming more frequent. As was the yearning to kiss his cheek again or smooth his hair from his brow. Without knowing it, Azriel had been tugging on some plug for a long time now, she realised, and things were seeping out: want to see him, want to hold him, kiss him. Just to be around him and hear his rich voice.

She felt hot pink spread across her cheeks.

_Oh, come on, Elain,_ she snapped at herself, shoving her nose into her book, _get over yourself and concentrate. You have no time for silly infatuation!_

…

They lunched outside, opening the glass library doors onto a flat patio overlooking the glorious sunshine city. Elain adjusted her metal seat so that she could easily reach for the sandwiches behind as well as face the sun. Her bare legs were stretched out in front of her, skirts hiked half way up her thighs and sleeves rolled up so her tan might be even. She did not understand how her companion could bare black on a day like this, let alone black leathers.

“Don’t you want to change?”

Azriel’s head was still ducked deep into _Flora and Fauna of Prythian, Volume 7._ It was the Night Court’s volume.

“I want to strip,” he replied, flashing a grin at her shocked expression. “But I didn’t think you would care for it.”

_Oh, I’d care for it._ Redness that had nothing to do with the heat burned her cheeks again and she chided herself internally. Sometimes, it felt like she had two people in her head: the prim, proper, society trained Elain and whatever gave voice to that thought. Luckily, Azriel noticed nothing buried in his book as he was.

Elain had finished picking all the plants she needed for the Day Court segment of her peace garden, noting down their locations, the particulars of their habitats, how to prepare and store their seeds and such. Bright marigolds and star-bust geraniums were on the list as well as some white lobelia throughout all of the Solar Court section to break up the reds, blues and yellows a bit. She planned on starting the Dawn Court volume soon.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Elain asked Azriel, who set the book aside at last and reached for some fruit. Elain tried not to concentrate too hard on the curve of his lips as he bit into a green apple.

“Forget-me-nots,” he replied after swallowing, a furrow grooving his brow as though carved there. “Illyrian forge-me-nots. I can’t seem to find them in that book.”

“Is that your favourite flower?” She was pleasantly surprised by the choice. Forget-me-nots meant true love.

“No, they’re very bitter tasting.”

Elain could not tell if he was joking or not. “Really?”

He huffed a single breath of laughter. “They’re my favourite to look at, but not to eat. I know where to find them though, so it doesn’t matter they’re not in the book.”

With a smile she asked, “Do you know what they mean?”

He smiled back. “True love. That’s how some Illyrian’s still propose with a posy of forget-me-nots and a stag for supper.”

“How romantic.” Her tone was mock dreamy, but she knew she had once actually spoken like that.

“Illyrians are about as romantic as wasps.” His tone held the sting of one.

After how intimate they were last night, Elain felt brave enough to prod that wound. He would not have said anything if it were scarred over. “Why do you hate the Illyrian’s so much?”

Without breaking her gaze, Azriel replied, “Because their backward way of life relies on centuries and centuries of misogyny, violence and oppression. A culture bred for war fits as easily into times of peace as a knife does into a jigsaw puzzle, so they breed their own conflicts for satisfaction. Not only that, they beat those ideas into their children to keep their underdeveloped traditions alive.”

Elain’s eyes were wide. “You’re rather… passionate on the subject.”

There was a loud crunch as he took another bite of the apple. “You could say that.”

“You know what I never realised until I came here? How sexist humans are. I mean- Graysen, for example –he would always say things like ‘Don’t you think that’s unladylike?’ when I’d merely be covered in dirt from gardening. You could not even discuss menstrual issues in front of another female.”

Azriel nodded his head. “Isn’t it funny how the only blood males fear is that which is naturally shed?”

Elain beamed at his understanding. “Exactly!”

“I can’t take credit for that quote. Mor said it first.”

The light mood was shaded by a big cloud all of a sudden. “Are… are you two alright now?”

“It’s… It’s awkward to say the least. That’ all I really want to say on the matter to be honest.”

“Oh.” To be honest herself, she was a little hurt. After revealing so much to him last night, she was hoping they might be more intimate now, that she could help him as he does her. “Alright then.”

…

They worked religiously until supper, communicating only to get Elain’s approval on certain flowers or to alter Azriel’s destination plotting on the map. By the time Helion summoned them to the meal hall, they only had the Autumn and Spring Courts left.

“Are you sure you want to go?” Azriel asked, just once more as they walked down the vibrant palace halls, arm in arm again.

She had never really been conscious of how they always did that, walked arm in arm. She only knew that it had been there and it had been the only recognisable symbol of human civilisation for her once she came down from the House of Wind.

Elain was adamant about her choice though. “We’ll be in and out. Two days at most with your winnowing.”

Azriel’s eyebrows raised and they halted. “Do you know how much energy winnowing takes?”

“A lot I take it.”

“You’re looking at a week for some of the larger territories at least.” He resumed their brisk pace.

A week in the Autumn Court. Elain doused the sparks of fear inside her. “What if you taught me how to winnow?”

“It’s harder than you would think. As hard to teach as it is to learn.” His face took on the countenance of one in a grim memory.

“Well who taught you?”

“Cassian and Rhysand. When we were around sixteen.”

Elain’s eyebrows lowered in confusion. “But Cassian can’t winnow.”

Azriel was full on scowling now, eyes narrow and teeth clenched. “No, the bastard just came to watch and laugh.”

“What did they do?”

“They… they tied my wings together and threw me off a short cliff until I could do it.”

“That’s terrible!”

Azriel shrugged. “I saw the funny side when I got to do it to Cassian. And as you said,” there was a malicious twinkle in Azriel’s eyes, “he can’t winnow.”

They both chuckled now, eyes so locked on eachother they barely noticed the silent toast Helion greeted them with. To their happiness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back, back again. Sorry about the delay. It's a bit of a shorter, non-impactful chapter this time. I didn't want to make you lot wait any longer. I've been really busy with studying and such. Plus, I've been going off Sarah J Maas a bit. No, don't hate me. I still like some of her stuff, but it's important to constructively criticise to learn. I can learn from whatever mistakes other authors make to improve my own writing. I won't go further into it, but it's one of the reasons I've not been as fanatic. Plus, studying ze Nazi's really drains one. Also, I had a birthday and got Flash Gordon t-shirt. Hashtag: Death to Ming. I swear things are going to pick up when I finally write them. One or two more chapters and they'll be on the road again, I just can't wait to get on the road again... As always, keep up the comments, they matter so much to me! If you ever fancy a random chat in the comments, I'm all ears. Hope you all have a lovely day and hope to write soon. As you were.

Ordinarily, having been well practiced in patience due to his profession, he would have been able to endure the monotony quiet easily. But that was before Cassian had placed the bottle on the highest shelf, out of his reach. Two days on, more often than not, he found he was keeping his silence to save her from an answer that might be too bitter or excuse himself to tire out with exercise. He drank water only and frequently, so as not to give himself the excuse of a dry throat. He was good at quitting. He knew exactly what to do with the amount of times he had done it. All needed was peace, quiet and isolation from anyone with in a mile’s radius.

Elain, enamoured in her research in such a way he saw her appeal to the scholarly Helion, would pleasantly wish him well until she saw him at supper again. He smiled at the way she chewed he thumb deep in thought before heading back to his room to do what little he could in such a tight space. Sometimes, big wingspans were truly overrated.

As soon as he was in the door, he stripped off his leathers down to his more mobile undershorts, savouring the cool air on his skin as he began to loosen his limbs, manoeuvring obstacles (such as unnecessary chairs) out of the way with a well-aimed kick. He flared his wings as much as he could. He could not wait until he could hear the wind sing his name again. Once free to move, he set about doing a punishing amount of push-ups, though he did not torment his body half as much as when he had cut Elain off about Mor yesterday.

He decided to add on another twenty-five sit ups just for the thought.

They did not speak as easily as they used to anymore, he and Mor. Once, he was her confidant, the shadow that devoured all her blackest thoughts. She in turn, though unknowingly, kept him from falling into drink as much, just by the grace of her company.

Fool though he was, he never nursed the hope of love, just let it wither in the corner of his barren soul, waiting for an absolution that would never come. But he had thought there had at least been trust between them. He thought perhaps he had finally been worthy of that.

Yet when she announced who she was, it had not been to him alone and in private. It had been in front of the entire Inner Circle. Her eyes, usually the colour of warmth soil like Elain’s, had kept frosting over every time they landed on him- as though she expected him to scream or rage or hurt her, like Beron’s son. All that happened was that that little creature inside, nursed by trust and friendship, now began to rot with resentment.

The intensity of his workout trebled now. Aches rippled up his tattooed arms, sweat beaded all over his body.

Utter, venomous resentment. Not at her.

He had failed her. Trapped her as she had been confined before in the Court of Nightmares, bound her with circumstance and obligation. Even if she did prefer males, he would not have deserved her.

When she announced she was going on a diplomatic mission to the Winter Court for a year, he did not object. The only surprise the others showed were their assessing glances, cast his way as if he were delayed explosive. Mor’s surprise hurt the most because it was tinged with relief. She wanted to get away from him.

Azriel had been stabbed many times. He knew the pain so well it was chapped lips or a papercut, a nuisance. Mor looking at him like that, the way a creature might before he tortured information out of it, surpassed that feeling.

In a fit of breathlessness, he collapsed onto his back, unfolding his wings as far as he could on the marble flooring without knocking some priceless decoration over. He stared up at the white, plaster layered ceiling that gave the impression of sea foam. Twinkling, almost garish ornaments sparkled in the corners of his vision.

What was he doing here? What was he doing here in this bright world with these people made of sunshine in a land of Day? He, with all his darkness, devilment and magnetism that brought only ill will his way? Azriel palmed his tired eyes, still struggling for breath and answers.

Flowers would not redeem him for what he was- a bloody killer. Assassin. Torturer. Spy. He enjoyed those things sometimes, especially if he had something as cruel as he could be under Truth-Teller. But at the end of the day, it was still his name they whispered the quietest when they retold stories of the wars. Azriel, the knife in the dark.

He lay on the floor with his own thoughts for company for a while until the door was unceremoniously slammed open. It was not a servant then.

“Azriel!” Beamed Elain, her lilting voice prompting him to bolt up, wings flaring in defensive instinct, knocking over one of Helion’s decadent vases.

“Elain! Knock next time!” The words had the all the snap of a barbed whip and he found regret softening his throat for whatever would come out next. He did not want Elain to fear him.

She gasped, taking a step towards the shards and reaching down to clear them, just as his hand did the same, then she gasped again. “Shirt.”

Azriel judged the pink on her face to be second hand embarrassment and turned the very colour himself, stiffening like a pillar and folding his wings around his form, cursing himself for not listening at the door more closely. His shadows whirled about his face, hiding his utter shame as Elain swept the pottery as neatly as she could into one pile for the short-haired maids to clean.

“I, uh,” began Elain, clearing the lump in her throat and not meeting his eyes or looking his way as she continued, “wanted to ask if you knew any medicinal herbs of the Dawn Court.”

Azriel swept through the catacombs of his mind, pulling out a few pages and weeds alike. “A few.” He did not meet her gaze either.

All he could think was: _She’s seen me in my underwear. My tight, thin underwear. She’s going to want to burn her eyes out!_

“Oh, good, good.” She stood, clearing her throat again, brushing at the invisible dust on her dress. “Is this a bad time? I feel like this is a bad time. I’m going to go now. See you in a bit!”

Before he could answer or even try and smooth this giant crease of a moment, she was out the door and bounding down the hall.

Azriel ran a sweaty hand over his face with a groan.

…

Elain bit her lip to keep whatever emotion she was feeling from her face. She was not sure whether it was about to drop in astonishment or raise in- lust? Attraction? Is attraction an emotion? Some of the short-haired servants rushing about spared her a curious glance and Elain started walking at a vigorous pace down the hall and away from Azriel’s door. Was he angry at her? She would be mad. He sounded mad.

All she had wanted was to gush about her new idea, which she thought was quiet clever really, to use medicinal plants for the Dawn Court segment of the garden, an ode to Thesan’s healing gift. Now here she was overcome with a sudden fever thanks to Azriel looking like… Well, like Azriel.

Without knowing it, she had bounded to the main hall of the marble palace and was making her way to the front entrance and the sun-blessed world outside. Good, she thought, feeling the sudden urge to stretch her legs and relieve the tension building in her abdomen. Why did he make her react like this?

 _It’s just a silly infatuation. Nothing more, girl,_ she told herself as she sped for the marble walls and gates. _Come on! You’ve got far more important things to concentrate on other than men! Like yourself!_

Elain nodded pleasantly to the guards, whom she now knew both by name. “I’m just popping into the city for a wander. I’ll be back before teatime.”

Smiling at the pair, Nisus and Sappho, Elain made her way out of the main gate and started descending towards the city. She did not have any money, but she did not feeling like shopping, just wandering about, anything to delay the laborious task of finding her flowers and to outrun her worrisome thoughts. Azriel’s tattoo whorled chest popped into mind again and suddenly her steps were just that bit quicker when she wondered whether it was waxed smooth or smattered with hair.

 _Mother’s tits!_ She thought, though it was someone else’s chest that appeared before her mind’s eye. _I’m so glad Feyre and Rhys aren’t here to invade my thoughts._ A bolt of panic went through her and now her mind was hurtling downhill as fast she was, recalling how powerful her daemati High Lord and High Lady were. _What if they can read my mind from here? Quick! Think of something boring! Flowers, flowers, flowers, geraniums, forget-me-nots, roses…_ She tried to keep this silly mental shield up before becoming easily occupied with other things, greenery having lost its novelty after burning her eyes through with it for the past few days.

She did not know how, but she had even managed to bore Azriel with it. He, with his level temper and smooth personality, frequently ditched her. Though, she recalled, biting her lip and thinking of his well-sculpted form, perhaps some good had come of it. Still, without him to chastise her for not working, she became more and more prone to procrastination- as she was now.

Elain skipped lightly through the city, leaving thoughts of flowers and maps and potentially nosey daemati behind as she delved into the role of tourist. Helion, organised as he was, had his city divided and segmented into all sorts of shopping districts: medicine, tailoring, artistry, metalwork, spells and enchantments, education and more. It was not as water based as the Sidra loving Velaris, but Elain eyed the other key details that were the stamp of Day and Helion: the odd whorled carvings of suns scattered about the city, the abundance of gold ink, the frequent statues holding both quill and blade. Elain could not help but compare these to the Illyrians and how they would likely scorn such things as education beyond battle necessities.

As Elain stared up at a particularly imposing ancestor of Helion’s and thought of this, her mind went naturally back to Azriel, who she could think about sensibly now time had passed.

He truly did despise his own people, the males at least. Elain pitied him for it. Such anger would always hold him back. Though, she thought as the image of his wax-melted hands cupped her mind, it was not exactly an unwarranted anger. Elain stepped away from the statue, which was located in the theatre area and thus held an acting mask, and left thoughts of barbaric Illyrian’s at its feet, but took Azriel with her.

He had been quiet today. The past few days actually.

Once, she recalled wanting to see the continental mortal realm for the glorious yet simple tulips there. How mortal. Now here she was viewing clocks that could speak, miniature apple orchards, a metal made flower that bloomed in time with the seasons, jewels that glowed like they could burn yet were cool to the touch. How immortal.

Elain stepped back from the enchanted scarecrow, stuffed with raven’s feathers and sewn with ruby eyes for the spell, and fell back on the spear of a thought.

Everything here was made to last. The trinkets, the scarecrows, the seasons and the fae. Elain carried on milling about the city, seeing her path but not all that lay around it. Immortality felt like a big, long question she did not know the answer to, a test she had every day and yet could never revise for. Without realising it, she had come to the edge of the city and was staring out at the golden field’s beyond and the well-worn path cut through them. Legs suddenly weak, she sat down. She stared long at the wheat, which surely would come to an end in bread or cake or even feed for livestock.

How was she to live her life to the fullest if there was never any need to? She could spend a century living alone in the woods if she wanted. Waste a year doing nothing but laying about in her nightgowns. Her lips twisted at that thought as it made her think of her first few months in Prythian. All this time, the entirety of it stretched before her, and she had not a clue to where to start when all this was over.

She wished for the simplicity of mortality and wheat. Her hand snaked up her chest and lay there, feeling the steady thump beneath, her mortal heart in an eternal shield.

 _You’re such a silly girl,_ a voice inside said. It was level and neutral. _Your mind is such a tangle net. You pull one thread and suddenly you are plunged into lust for a man that has no interest in you like that. Pinch another thread and suddenly you are a philosopher, pondering your long, long life._

Elain physically shrugged at the voice and then mentally shoved it and the net aside with a half-hearted promise to unravel it another time. She stood with a sigh and turned. She began ascending the incline which would take her through the city, past the great library and upwards to the palace. Mind, body and heart numbed with exercise, it was time to tend her spoilt stomach with the wealth of faerie food. Despite her aching feet, she sped a little. Mid way through the market, a familiar bolt of leaf green and bark-coloured tangles blocked her path. Elain stiffened and gave a delayed smile.

“Myrtle!” She hoped her voice did not sound like cracked porcelain.

The little faerie girl grinned. “You remembered! Elain Archeron remembered my name!”

So, it would seem, did everyone else, for people began to repeat it, first in memory, then in realisation. People were starting to look.

“Of course I would. I really enjoyed meeting you but I must be going now”-

“Are you feeling better?” Interrupted Myrtle, not knowing better. People were starting to draw closer in now, becoming like walls that would squash her. No, not walls. Hands. Two, ruddy, weapon-calloused hands about to crush her flat between them.

Elain did not understand the question but answered hastily, “I feel fine. Thank you for asking. I hope to see you soon!” She made to rush away, straight into the face of a pretty High Fae girl with burning orange eyes, a common feature amongst the day court.

“Is it true? Are you really Elain Archeron, the Kingslayer?”

A voice she had not heard in a while bounced around the back of her skull, laughing. Elain forced her smile harder, “Mmm-hmm. That’s me. Now I must be going”-

Someone seized her wrist, but she could not yank it away for fear of hurting the blue skinned faerie child squeezing it in delight. Questions flew at her like missiles while she stood arrested and trying to keep her face from cracking. More than anything, she wished she had persisted in getting Azriel to teach her how to winnow. Even being pushed off a cliff repeatedly was preferable to this.

“What was it like?”

“Is it true you beheaded him in one swing?” Romanticised one, taking a mock slash himself.

“Did you make a necklace of out of his teeth?”

“Did you keep his skull as a trophy?” Went one tiny-waisted male, red eyes bulging and eager for bloody details.

Elain’s throat turned to sand paper as she scanned desperately for a way out. “I- uh… I”- The male with the fourteen inch waist and twig-like figure repeated his question and suddenly Elain had an idea. She fluttered her eyelids. “I- oh, I feel so…”

Elain fell to the floor dramatically, yet harder than she remembered for there were now voluminous skirts to cushion her this time, merely a thin, breezy gown she would have once considered underwear. Her style may have changed, but her tricks had not. Many a time, she had lost breath due to the mortal world’s ridiculous corsets or pretended to merely to avoid a particularly grotesque suitor. It worked every time.

Sunlight hit her eye lids as people parted in worry and she felt a stranger heave her up and away, her limp and dazed in their arms. Only on her two feet did she open her eyes and with the briefest thank you to the female that had helped her up, bolted with all her fae speed up the hill towards the palace. Even then, she did not stop running, only dashing in a streak of silk towards her rooms, throwing herself into the bathroom. She slammed the door behind her and sank down with the cool wood to her back.

_Be calm, be calm, be calm, be calm, be calm…_

Her chest was heaving, her heart a hammer against the anvil of her ribs.

_Be calm, be calm, be calm, be calm, be calm…_

Another voice began to hiss under the percussion of hers. Hybern’s voice. He was everywhere.

“Be calm, be calm, be calm, be calm,” whispered Elain aloud in a breathless mantra, trying not to think of the sapphire clad priestesses who acted similarly.

_What’s the matter sweet one, not proud to be a killer?_

Tears slipped down her cheeks. “Be calm, be calm, be calm, be calm…”


	8. Chapter 8

Helion strolled through his halls with a looseness in his limbs that told those who knew him well his mood was fair. His morning had been honey-bee productive so that the rest of his day had been freed from its usual political tether, his flirtations had been returned by the handsome bookshop owner he had invited out for dinner this morning and he had even caught a glimpse of Azriel exercising _shirtless_ through the Illyrian’s window. Though he did prefer his bookshop male, Lucius, he thought with wistful sigh, feeling very much like writing a romantic poem for him. Azriel was nice and all, but a little too moody for his liking, though he was intrigued to know his thoughts on theatre. But he just did not make Helion think of couplets and iambic pentameter like Lucius did.

He winnowed in excitement to his library where he planned on asking Elain for advice on what to wear for his dinner tonight- not that he needed it of course, god of fashion that he was. Only that he ached for her company and voice. She likely needed a distraction too, hard as she worked, the poor pet. She was nearly done, she had told him, and he only had her and the bat for a few more days before they were off to explore and collect. He hoped the bat would be happier for it.

It had not escaped Helion’s notice that Azriel had been sharper recently, a little less prone to weather his teasing and a lot more tight lipped. Perhaps it was being cooped up in such brightness all the time, he thought, gazing up at the massive window in his library. Maybe all Azriel needed was a good, dark, damp cave to be grumpy in while he and Elain kept cosy in his library.

Only, she was not in the library, though her books lay open on one of the desks and a quill stood erect in an ink pot, an eager dog waiting the return of its master. Ever curious, he peaked at the page and saw it was not from any of the Courts, but the gap in which the once sacred mountain was. Sacred, until Amarantha bastardised it with blood, abuse and shrieking. Helion curled and uncurled his fists, feeling his pulse raise in them.

_Sunshine, flowers, plum wine, love, red hair, books, orange blossoms, poetry, music…_ He continued listing until the sound of screams faded and he could breathe a little better. He took a deep breath, assured by the real scent of parchment and ink. There were still good things in the world. He surveyed the making of such a thing in progress, gold eyes going calmly back to the page and the notes scattered about.

A particularly interesting looking plant lay in watercolour on the page: pale blue with spiked petals and a spherical structure dotted with whispy limbs. _Eryngium,_ it was called, though Helion thought it looked more like a snowflake or a star. It symbolised both independence and austerity. Elain had noted in her rather scribbly handwriting that it _Would be good for end of Amarantha._ _Austerity to independence for Prythian._ _Also, looks like a star or a snowflake,_ here Helion smiled and thought great minds think alike, _good for linking Winter and Night._

Thinking nothing peculiar of it, he decided to exercise his legs and walk to knock on her room door. He paused along the way to check with one of his servants that she had returned.

“Yes, High Lord, though she seemed in an awful hurry.”

“Maybe she’s excited about something,” reasoned Helion, dismissing the servant with a friendly smile.

On the way, lightning stuck his brilliant mind, which was like an iron rod for such things. Perhaps, while he went on his little rendezvous with Lucius, he could arrange a nice private dinner for his love-birds.

_Or love-bats, more appropriately._ He smirked to himself at his own brilliance, though it melted like heated wax when Elain answered the door with a smile stiffer than Kallias’ court.

His brows knitted together and this seemed to break the hold she had to raise her cheeks. “Elain, my dove, whatever is the matter?”

She sniffed and stretched her lips, still salted at the corners. “Nothing!”

“You’ve been crying.”

Helion brushed past her into the room and sat down on the plush bed, a giant of a male with a look on his face that can only be described as motherly tenderness. He patted the bed. Elain, head heavy and rolled towards her chest, pushed the door closed and added her weight to the golden duvet.

“Come, sweet, tell me all about it.”

She seemed much like a dog with a thorn in its paw, waiting for it to be dug out and yet not wanting to be touched. Helion sat quietly.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It makes it easier.” All ready he was preparing answers, trying to determine the question she would present him: was she still in mourning for her father? Did she still have nightmares about Hybern’s camp? Was it her humanity? That thought tugged him back to the other day in the library, her sadness and interest in mortal literature. Or, he thought with a small surge of paternal affection for the fae before him, was it the bat? He placed a protective arm around her shoulders, pulling her towards him. “Come now, I won’t tell a soul and I give sage advice. I shan’t see you sad in my home.”

He watched the expression change on Elain’s face, her decision bobbing from her creased brow down to her throat and then up, out of her lips. “I just got a bit… panicked today in the city.”

_Anxiety_ , he thought, combing through his memory for previous signs to support his hypothesis. If his suspicions got worse, he decided, he might send for a psychological expert. Misdiagnosis was just as bad as never having one and Helion strongly believed only experts should determine such a thing.

“Did it come out of nowhere or…”

Elain shook her head, raising her hands in a sort of helpless, flighty gesture. “No. People figured out who I was and they began to crowd a bit. I’m not overly keen on strangers as of recent.”

“Well,” he said, voice soothing and in time with his strokes of her arm, “you are in a new place, away from home and your sisters, with an important task. It’s a lot of stress”

Elain scoffed and levelled a sceptical look at him. “It’s just a garden.” She tucked her hands into her lap, away from sight.

“It’s more than that. It’s a symbol.”

Elain gave him a look somewhere between a smile and a wince. “It’s still just a bunch of flowers and shrubbery.”

Helion rolled his eyes. _Oh, let her see the impact when she finishes it._

He pictured it now: a place of peace and beauty. A place of mourning for those dead but unburied. A shelter and pilgrimage for weary souls to lay their loved ones at ease. Proof the world could still make good, green and growing things. But before that, he needed to do a little gardening himself.

“Would you like to know what helps me when I feel stressed or panicked?”

“I want to figure it out by myself.”

Helion understood that. How much better it felt to earn than receive. But he also knew enough to know better. “But that’s not always possible, Elain. It is not weakness to receive help.”

She perked up a little like a withered plant recently watered and put into sunshine. She met his eyes intently, willing to learn. “Go on.”

“I make lists. I list all the things opposite and good to the bad thing. Let me think of an example.” It did not take long, organised as his mind was. “When I was very small, I used to be afraid of the dark.”

“You? The High Lord of Day? _Never._ ”

Helion’s replying smirk was cutting and beautiful, diamond-like. “Mmm, yes, well, I was, so there, Little Miss Sarcastic. Anyway, what helped me get to sleep every night was these little lists, my way of coping. I would list all the good creatures in the dark when thoughts of the Bogge crept in, or the naga. I would think of Moonlight Sprites, Night Nymphs or those little glowing thingies Rhysand told me about- the ones that come on Nynsar!”

Elain’s brows raised in recognition, surely thinking of the bright sprites of her own first Nynsar.

“You do give sage counsel after all.” She elbowed him good-naturedly in the ribs, grinning in a way both woman and child. “It must come with age.”

Helion gave a huff at the barbed comment. “They say you’re the sweet one, but you’re just as mean and stubborn as your other two sisters, eh?”

“Must run in the family.” Elain smirked, looking more like her usual self.

“We can always talk, you and I.” It rang out like a promise. “You know that, don’t you?”

She nodded and took a clear breath. “Thank you. For your concern and the advice. I’ll take it.”

Helion patted her on the head, smiling warmly and mussing her loose waves. “Glad this old man could be of service.” And he was.

…

Elain spent the rest of the late afternoon with Helion until he left to meet Lucius, whom Elain felt very pleased for. Sometimes she detected a strong loneliness in Helion deep within and she felt strongly he ought to seek happiness. It was as if some deep, linking bond connected them. Elain thought is was suffering. He had suffered just as much as the rest of them and she regretted that she would leave two days hence, not yet having prepared Azriel.

This time she would knock on his door and come out soberly, professionally. A small part of her dreaded dinner tonight in the hall, especially since it would be just the two of them. Helion deserved the epithet Ice-Breaker. For now, she pushed those thoughts aside and focused on her friend.

It was an easy, quiet time, taken up mostly but intellectual debate set in his vast gardens. Their opinions were mostly similar, but Helion liked to play the devil’s advocate, just for fun. He debated like Cassian told a story, vivid and play-like, with much motion with his hands. Elain, by contrast, kept one on his arm and the other at her side, out of sight. The debates and talk kept her mind off things long enough for her to resolve to be better.

_Yet again,_ she inwardly sighed before hammering the promise to her heart, adamant it would be fulfilled this time. _No more tears, no more panicking. You are not allowed._ After all, now she had a new trick to try.

Helion’s advice had settled like a smooth pebble at the bottom of her lake of thought, ready to be washed up whenever needed. Lists were logical, which seemed to suit her when she needed structure in the chaos. It seemed like sound counsel. Perhaps she could apply it to Hybern: _saved Prythian, saved Nesta, saved Cassian…_ It did not sound right in her head- just yet, she hoped. A little practice would surely set her on the right path. That was all her life needed, direction for the madness and wonder. Direction and a little peace and quiet. Once more, she found herself grateful Helion did not have his massive palace filled with prying courtiers so that this small slice of serenity was preserved just for them.

The cloudy day approaching its end, fluffy wafts meandering lazily across the sky, providing just enough shade when out of the tree line. The white-blossomed trees themselves were like clouds and the city looked better from far away and high up. The scent of orange blossom soothed her and the wind was balmy against her exposed skin, though her hair was growing quickly hot, making her envy the short-haired maids rushing about the palace. She found herself twirling it around her fingers, debating whether or not to chop it off. Other than the climate, things grew heated only once.

“I saw you were planning on collecting some eryngium from the gap.” Elain’s first warning sign was the levelness of his voice, the lack of warmth. She opened her pointed ears widely, though she kept her face placid, an easy and useful habit from her mortal days. “It is not a safe place. Dark creatures still roam those parts.”

“Oh?” Elain said, pride filling the gap where fear once would have been. She still a little straighter. “Then I shall have to endeavour to be quick, my friend.”

“This is not joking matter. I do not want for you to get hurt.”

“No one wants the china to crack!” Joked Elain, hoping to steer him onto a lighter topic, but he held the conversation by the throat.

“Elain,” bit out Helion, suddenly reminding her of her father when she was little. The imagery needled at her and she felt her tongue harden as she willed Helion to drop the subject. He was charitable and she was irritable.

Elain forced her shoulders to shurg nonchalantly. “Ah, well. If I get a few scars, I’ll get over it in a century, I’m sure. Probably less. I’m not as vain as you and Rhysand.”

Yes, she could learn to stop caring about her appearance in the face of eternity. Eternity, another topic she would have to make lists about it: _see the world, see the world die…_ She shook her head and told herself, _Later._

Helion stopped, halting right under a tree in full bloom. Elain carried on walking, admiring the sky’s shade. “It’s not safe.”

“Nowhere is safe.” Elain looked up to the pearly blossoms, tenderly cupping one without concentrating too much on her fingers. “It’s not like I’ll be alone.”

Azriel would keep her safe and she planned on learning a few tricks herself before they reached that deadly territory, if only she could get him to teach her. He would not like it. Besides that, she did not really care as much what she saw or experienced. She had enough fear in her life to get in its way.

“Elain, I”-

“Worry too much,” she finished, finally turning and giving the orange blossom branch an impossible tug for one so slight. The wood creaked and began to splinter. “I am no longer made of porcelain. Outwardly, I am adamant.” She let the branch go with a snap and it swayed for a while, raining petals into her hair. “I merely must learn to be so on the inside as well.”

Helion stood with his feet firmly on the earth. “I am very serious about this, Elain. Please do not be reckless.”

Elain copied his body language, spreading her feet slightly and drawing her voice from deep within her. “So am I Helion. I’ll tell you what, I’ll make you a promise. You may even etch it onto my skin.”

He stepped closer to her, still towering but she did not feel dwarfed. She felt ready for the challenge, eager to prove him wrong. Often she was finding spite a greater motivator than encouragement. To say, _You were wrong_ seemed so much more satisfying than _I was right_. The next time someone asked her if she was Elain Archeron, King-Slayer, she would be able to smile and look at her hands. She would learn to be proud of it, as everyone else was.

“Next year, I will return and I will have cried all my tears. I will return and I will be stronger. I will return and you will believe me.”

He was quiet for all of a moment. She watched the calculations behind his eyes, the various answers he sucked back through his teeth for refinement.

“You just want to go more now, don’t you?”

Elain hummed in the affirmative, sensing she had won him over. Partially, at least. She watched the expressions of a great internal struggle cross his face, then he released a sigh as heavy as an anchor.

“Just stick to Azriel like one of his shadows. Trust his instincts, and your own.”

She nodded. “I plan on it.”

They resumed walking side by side, equals once again.

“Have you even told him?”

Her wincing smile was her reply. Helion said a prayer. “Poor lad.”

“Oh, and that reminds me,” minced Elain, tucking her arm through his looped one in a way that comforted her. She gave him her most winning grin. “Do you have any books on winnowing?”


End file.
